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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






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DRAMAS 



BY 



E. J. and A. W. SANBORN 



COMFORT IN A CORNER 



THE ROGUES' MIRROR 



32ta$ton t ijtlr X 



J. G. CUPPLES COMPANY, PUBLISHERS 
250 Boylston Street 



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Copyright, 1892, 

BY «,> 

E. J. SANBORN and A. W. SANBORN. 



All rights reserved. 



TMP96-006i>74 



COMFORT IN A CORNER 

By E. J. Sanborn. 



THE ROGUES' MIRROR. 

By A. W. Sanborn. 



6 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Mr. Lee, What's the noise? 

Con. Like as the leaves 

Were tumbled over, and with their rustle 
The birds set up a twitter. The east wind 
Blows morning this way, which is still their key 
To wake them up to song. 

Mr. Lee. No, no, I think 

They have a querulous and shrill-sounding note. 

Con. Yes, sure it is no song, but the harsh voice 
Of their displeasure. They may be disturbed 
By some one coming hither. If I call 
No one will hear. No one else does to-night 
Take leave his bed. 

Mr. Lee. Yes, call. 

Con. Hello ! Hello ! 

Lance (from a distance). Ho ! where are you? 

Mr. Lee. Ahead here in a hollow. 

Con. Right on. 

Lance. Your voices go about. 

Con. Here, here ! 

Enter Lance. 

Lance. How these sounds beat around ! 

Con. We spoke but softly. 

A louder sound flies into echoes, which 
Come from all sides at once. 

Lance. This place is fit, 

And far, and good for secrets. 

Con. There was no need 

To come here ; least of bothering you, 
But Martin feared some one would see, and after 
Store it against us. Gossip is a hoarder 
That puts to interest for a bad use. 

Lance. Ay, looks out for the winter. 

Con. That's her caper. 

Lance. It shall be a cold day before she knows 
My business, yet 'twere almost as well 
To do in her face what she will unpack 
If done in mildew. She does ever pry 
About her feet, and like a hog, pokes up 
The dung and slough of reputation. But 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

If there is one that's bold enough to soar 
Above her trough ? she cannot for her appetite 
Reach such a person. So secrecy betrays 
More than it hides, and worst betrays itself. 
That is of the face, but carefulness here 
Is well enough. 

Mr. Lee. I am glad you approve me ; 
For a friend's praise is doubly sweet. 

Lance. Tis better, 

I think, to hear that unfamiliar name, 
A bygone tune to me. I have been roving, 
And little used to it, yet I can whistle 
Snatches and bars of friendship here and there, 
Like here's a golden act, done to the tune 
Of generosity, or there's a quaver 
Of a kind fellow, all vague as the music 
Without a name. 

Mr. Lee. This of ours shall be lasting. 

Lance. I hope so. Call me friend and use me so; 
I will be that to every man. 

Con. We know 

Your sympathy for us, or we would not 
Have put into your hands, or more your heart, 
Our evil situation. We do need 
A man of judgment, but more loviDg friends. 
We know you have the first; seeing your face 
Who could not read you? Sagacity is such, 
Dressed up in fury, no one need to miss it. 
But friendship and affection, being calmer 
And led to privacy, are not so open. 
Here is where we need the brevity of action, 
Which will most try you. 

Lance. Oh, I have a heart 

For pitiableness. I knew your sadness, 
But dared not broach it to you, because you 
Kept from me. I have heard of secret sorrows 
Which take offense. Although I watched you all, 
Both you and your father, and you also, Conway, 
I was an onlooker, ready to become 
Judge at appeal. How can I help you on? 
Oh ! what are the particulars? 



8 COMFORT IN a CORNER. 

Mr. Lee. Tis bitter 

For rae to tell you. If you have had dealings 
Or passages of business with my father, 
You know his ways. 

Lance. I' faith I do. 

Mr. Lee. And then you know no good of. 

Lance. V faith I do not. 

Mr. Lee. That's the short of it. He's become a judge, 
And peers down on the traffic, or pretends 
To give his time to justice, but puts me 
In charge of his affairs. So he gives out 
A lie, which is made public and goes round 
The circle of his creditors. They with banners 
Of hope come flying up to me, all mortgages, 
That run to a foreclosure, or the like. 
I, who would gladly grant them anything, 
By make of nature, must wet their bright colors, 
And flat refuse all pity. He was made 
Of a harder kind from me, but worse cut out, 
I think. Oh ! it does break my heart to see 
These folks in want, but I cannot give them 
The remedy even of tears. They come and go 
Around me like a post set up for runners. 
And I stare at my feet, look through the window, 
Or anywhere but in their humble eyes, 
Which do light on me with the force of truth 
Pointed with pity. Some with rugged fierceness 
Bite at me, but they fall on empty courage 
And nothing to return. I am a coward 
At their looks. Then come what, come will, I'll be 
No longer the thin cloth of decency 
Between my father and the proper world. 
Those who owe him shall beg of him, not me, 
And give him blame. Now if a lean-worked farmer 
Asks time and time, he speaks with a bland smile 
As you could paint with the fine brush of your fancy ; 
Tells him sweetly, he is a generous man, 
But that withal, his young son has his moneys, 
And looks to them. Yet he will recommend 
Him to be light. Then hie to me they come, 
But e'er their post, I have a sharp reproof 



COMFORT IN A CORNNR. 9 

Of their demand, and bitterly deny them. 

By this I get hate, scorn, open reproach, 

So that I may not take the mellow air, 

Except in the deep woods, but I am set on 

With slurs and hints where two can get together ; 

But never one alone, as I have noted 

Loneliness makes us all friends. But my father 

Bears off the palm for an easy gentleman. 

I cannot bear this longer and endure 

The hate of all good men. I've had a mind, 

Which was not half a mind, to end myself; 

Then I would think better. Oh, the brook 

Of youth runs muddy ! 

Lance. Oh ! I feel for you. 

Mr. Lee. Is't not unnatural? 

Lance. Yes, what is this gold? 

All pelted o'er with dirt. There's not a man 
Looks at it rightly. First for independence 
We yearn to get, then this obtained, pile up 
For power, which got, we go on scrambling. 
'Tis plain there is no definition to it. 

Con. No, the fact is reason enough. 

Lance. ■ 'Twas not 

Ten hours ago I saw your father draw 
His silken money between his thumb and finger. 
He whetted them meanwhile to get its flavor, 
And found it sweet. His lips were puckered up 
Into a song, as fair as birds could sing. 
When I came in, said he, What a fine day ! 
Though the sun had not seen earth a week, 
And clouds were gadding round. It is the heart 
That makes the weather, and money the heart, 
At least in him. He has more joy in grubbing 
Pennies than saving souls. You would have said it 
By taking a look at him. 

Con. That's not the worst he's done by me. 

Lance. Ay, he held you in ward. 

Con. For five years, and as you know, promised me 
His only daughter, Julia. He went 
The way of guardians, and robbed my income ; 
Turns me out of the promise, now of age, 



10 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

And gives her hand to our friend Harry Buel. 
But children differ where parents most agree, 
And they love not each other. She does cling 
To me; his fancy's touched by Jane, 
So 'twould be a happy company, if we 
Could bring about our love. 

Lance. Hum, to that end 

You want my helps and comfort. 

Con. That's our case. 

Mr. Lee. What's your advice? 

Lance. Of a positive sort. 

It shall commit both you and me, for mark, 
Who has my wisdom, must take it for proof 
That they see no way out, but put themselves 
Upon my word entire. I hold it cheap 
To bandy round advice, and ne'er do I, 
Unless it is bespoken. 

Mr. Lee. Go on Lance, 

You are well informed about us. 

Con. We'll abide by you. 

Lance. It hurts me to be so nice with you. 

Mr. Lee. No, that's a natural pride, but our good sense 
Prohibits us from asking and refusing. 

Lance. It seems like bold discourtesy, I own it. 
But how many ask my services, and leave 
To follow their own bent. Such love their woes 
Too well to cure them. 

Con. Oh, be sure of us, 

We are no such. 

Lance. Then first I speak from knowledge, 

That should be first to every speaking, so 
Depend upon my years. I have been skipper 
Aud cargo to your father this long time ; 
And doubly know him. First he has a nature 
Without appeal. There will no easy means 
Pass with him. He did use me like a cur, 
Until I got the wind of his transactions ; 
But mark, their sins make men uncommon fair. 
Now if I ope my mouth to spit, he starts 
For fear I ask a bribe. What a fine life 
To lead with mutual sinners, where no one 
Could gossip o'er his neighbor. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 11 

Mr. Lee. Yes, a jail life. 

Con. Why no ! Jail birds are of different feathers, 
And there is no equality in sin. 
This vanity plumes her loose quills in prison, 
And lives above her mates. 

Mr. Lee. Well, but the point. 

Lance. The truth is, secrets kept are always gold, 
But when let out are so much good coin spent 
In that damned luxury of blabbing; I 
Being in his business, know his knavery 
And all his native nature. From his harshness 
I judge you can do nothing short but leave him, 
And go outright. My vessel is a refuge 
For all of you at once, and soon I follow 
The current on my last trip down to Memphis, 
You can all bide with me a time, as 'twere 
Passengers on their way. When you are married 
Matters will come to an arrangement, and 
Martin will shame his father, at least he 
Will let nothing out for his pride, but learn 
A lesson. 

Mr. Lee. That's comfortable advice. 

Con. The sweetest I could hear. 

Lance. Then you will with me? 

Con. Yes, to th' ends of the earth. I am no lover 
Of mincing tiptoe and right merry walk, 
Such as do swagger the dance beneath the moon 
Of ivory April or October, when, 
However rantingly the lady of the night, 
Through swinging windows at the harvest home, 
O'er merry huskers and gay laughter wheels. 
Well, then, I'm no such fellow as does trip 
The fashion of a love, but when it comes 
To her possession at a tiny risk, 
Grow cold as ice, or for some penny forfeit 
Or breach of custom, give up a darling woman. 
This custom is a whip laid on our backs, 
Which we endure in seltish hope ; at last 
We can hit others with it. I will neither 
Use it against the world, and in that hope, 
As every horse is of his master's kind, 



12 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Look for indulgence. But they shall not rot 
Or rust my temper. If they gossip o'er me, 
I will not mind them. 

Mr. Lee. That's easy to say 

Here in the forest's face. But if you come 
To bear the scorn of fools, there is no courage, 
At least in honest men to bear you out. 
They run from their disgrace. Only base knaves 
Can. make familiar with her. I'll away 
And flee my insults. 

Con. That is settled on, 

And best for all of us. 

Lance. Oh, wisdom ! 

Mr. Lee. What ! 

Lance. I was but thinking how unapt it is 
To see a pate so young, so wise. 

Con. No! No! 
My wisdom's not a mention, but I cannot go wrong 
While I have you and such sweet timely friends 
To mix my brine of life with milk of kindness. 

Lance. You do repay me and leave me in debt. 

A friend's praise covers up a thousand faults. 
Come, say no more. Your love is in arrear, 
And on the morning wears. Short time ago 
Some village clock beat three and even now — 
Hark ! hark ! A rival bell like peevish men 
Chides out late discontent. Shall we break up, 
If there's no more, and at a future time 
Fix our particulars? 

Mr. Lee. Yes, this fog chokes me : 

The river breathes it up. Such exhalations 
Climb to the summit. We had best indoors 
And shut our windows, e'er the morning lights. 

Lance. Good-night. 

Con. Goocl-morniug, that is more pleasant. 

Mr. Lee. No, good for all times. {Exeunt Martin 
Lee and Conway.) 

Lance. Now, as I live there are some honest fellows 
among mankind, right true, right independent, and right 
silly in their conceits. Well, before I am done, they shall 
be farther foolish, and shall not live to repent it. The 



COMFORT IN A. CORNER. 13 

old dotard, his father, has a great sum by him, as I did 
count. That is plain, for I saw it with my own eyes. It 
would be no very hard thing- to lay hold of it, and put the 
blame on them, as they will leave on a sudden. I can 
make him credit that they are not with me, but gone 
somewhere else. Then, if I put them out of the way, 
like I have better before them, all proof against me will 
be wiped out. If I have done this before, why can I not 
do it again? Those last immigrants were easy prey, but 
too poor. I will try them, as I live, as I live. Two such 
custards were never set before me, but they must go the 
w^ay of all flesh. How late it is. Did I not bury a man 
here for company? — the very spot, and he was a rogue. I 
-will lie here till morning. A pillow would not come 
amiss, but I can rest in a hollow. Ho, I must not sleep, I 
must say a prayer. What a godly place this is for St. 
Howler," the episcoper. A tree for a belfry, a stump for 
a clerk, a log for a bishop. Borrow a voice of the wind 
for your clerk and the remainder. I must rest for to- 
morrow. A bit of this will do it. (Takes from a vial.) 
' Now my dreams will be lofty. (Lies down.) 

Scene II. — In a cross-road. 

Enter Justice Lee. 

Justice Lee. The devil take highways. On my soul I 
wish he would, and lose half of his fare for doubling and 
twisting. This main road is every man's servant and 
calls at every man's door. If I had been as w T ise as I was 
stingy, I would have bribed the surveyor to run it plumb 
from the town to my gate. Now I must jog half a mile 
round or take this path. Some beggar first trod it, and 
all the world has since followed him ; a lazy beggar and a 
thrifty world in its own estimate. What's to hinder me 
from going? The path is as straight as if the plummet 
bee, the yellow surveyor of nature, had lined it, and 
nothing very rocky. In fact sheep are better road 
choosers than men. Then for a brave man this has no 
fear, but for a coward he might turn him back. Oh, damn 
my hired man for a lousy knave ! If he had come, I need 



14 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

not walk in meditation far. But bravery cares for noth- 
ing, not even its own kind. Pluck up, pluck up, there's 
nothing to fear ! There is no robber ; nor if there were, I 
have no cash, except a couple of eagles in my pocket, and 
four or five more, now methinks. Well that's no account 
for a brave man. If thieves were as thick as nettles, 
your brave man takes the alley and leaves the road to 
cowards. Then supposing I have three or four pieces, 
or on a pinch five or six more, who knows but I am a 
vagrant, and who would rob a beggar and get lice? This 
is night that dresses all men alike. Then who knows 
what I am? This is the way, and I will talk to myself for 
better company, but not a lisp of my money. Why does 
it clink so at every step? Is it fighting for values? 'Tis 
but little, one or two. If I stuff my handkerchief between 
them, can I go on in peace? Or had I not better sing, to 
drown their song? However, however — (Sings.) 

If I were young again 

And you were young with me, 

We'd all so merry ; 
But now old age has ta'en 
My silver tops in fee, 

I'm still merry, merry. 

That's good. Do I know another? A blind man had 
them for sale and I bought one out of pity. The fellow 
had the best of me for that I could not cheat his eyes out 
of his head and he could mine. Loud for an echo now, 
while on I tramp. (Enter H. Buel.) Ho! what's that? 
A man, and a right tall one. Down in my pockets lucre. 
I'll not turn back, but speak. 

A charming lass, she is my love, — 

Ah ! neighbor, this is a little road for two large men. 

H. Buel. (In disguise.) Give yourself no heed, friend. 
There will be one of us out of it e'er long. 

Js. Lee. Nay, I beg you stand not aside, but come 
right on ; here's the best passage for a hundred rod. 

H. Buel. Nay, I will spring back these laurels and we 
can pass here. 

Js Lee. As it like you ; 'twill be foul tomorrow. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 15 

H. Buel. Not as foul as you, knave. Take that. (Strikes 
him down.) 

Js. Lee. Oh, murder! I'm down. 

H. Buel. In truth, and you might have said senseless, 
if you had sense enough to say it. Let's see. He's stiff 
and stark, but will come to shortly. If my stick had 
another foot 'twould be none too long. Now if you try 
your persuasion again on sweet Jane, I'll visit you in the 
same spot ; but I must straight to my friends to prove a 
dozen alibis, if any show of assault is patched up against 
me. (Exit.) 

Scene III. — On a boat. . 

Enter Grim and Allen. 

Grim. I thought the skipper was not home last night. 

Allen. Neither was he, or he would have knocked our 
heads together for being asleep. That's proof . He could 
float ashore like any other empty bottle, but not back so 
quick the same way. 

Grim. Now look you! look you! The cable has 
slipped a turn. If he made a whack to board us last 
night, he has stepped between the wharf and plank. He's 
an angle worm in some pike by this time. 

Allen. A malt worm would suit him better; but how 
you will, there's more than one drunken fish in the Ohio. 
Let us call Stewart, if he knows anything about our 
skeleton. Hi, there, you bagpipes ! Where's skipper moon- 
beam all in melancholy black, as he would attend his 
own funeral, or was craping himself for every dead 
knave, for fear 'twas his father. 

Enter Stewart, from below. 

Still asleep, with your eyes shut and your mouth open. 
Where's the captain? 

Stewart. He's off, faith. 

Grim. Ay ! drowned and off" forever. And there's his 
coffin. 

Stewart. God 'a mercy. I have thought of that often. 
Who will be master now? 



16 COMFORT IN A CORNER, 

Grim. None of us, mind you ; but some pampered 
monkey that has ne'er had the rough and tar of office, -who 
has sat o'er his quills and grown fat on warm meals. 
But like enough he's not drowned, barring his insides, 
which are so perpetual. A gin bottle is more natural in 
his mouth than his tongue. But heave ho ! catch up the 
loop and make thiugs tight. He'll be here presently. 
Office-holders never resign, and few 7 die. 

Allen. If he were dead in good earnest, I could saj r a 
fair word for him. 

Stewart. Keep it to yourself. I would see him first in 
his coffin. Such a villain deserves it to be already made 
for him. If he has one good trait, 'tis freeness of his 
cash, the more as I think 'tis stolen, but otherwise he 
deserves to be hanged for the worst poker of mischief I 
know of. 

Grim. Ay, there are such fashions going about and no 
good hints. What's good of a man is spoken, and what's 
bad is whispered. This Lance has more said under 
breath about him than all the remainder of gossip. I 
cannot go into a shop but some half drunken fellow 
pulls me by the coat with such things as, Beware ! Grim 
hast arms, and Be true to thy name. But when I strike them 
fo,r something plain, they fall to generals, for drunken 
men and philosophers td,ke the same road. 

Allen. Truth, I have been jogged myself, and more of 
late than ever. In most by a pilot of Louisville, who 
should know the wickedness of all men, he's so bad him- 
self. Such are up to others' crimes for no more than self- 
protection. But w 7 hen I would probe him to the point, 
he saith the census-taker has missed the three former 
hands on this vessel. Theu mum, except as his liquor 
talks to him. 

Stewart. For that matter the captain is no saint, and 
I'd not like to be on the prickly side of him. But, mind 
you, these fellows tell more than they can prove. He was 
half drunk, which means whole drunk for any man out of 
Kentucky. 'Tis good reason you have on your coat, 
united we stand, divided we fall, for there's not one of you 
can stand alone, at a respectable time. 

Allen. Well, so much the better. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 17 

Grim. Ay, will you slander religion? You were born 
out of your state in Missouri. They can make you a man 
here, and a citizen everywhere else. 

Stewart. I'd have taken papers here, if there had been 
no law against honest men. You know villains will 
thrive where decent cattle starve. 

Allen. All of us are like to starve in this condition. 
Where's Meg? 

Grim. Ay, she can sleep, I'll not wake and want. Meg ! 
Meg ! get our breakfast ! 

Allen. Or we'll break thy maiden-head, virgin, and 
utterly spoil you with your twenty-seven lawful hus- 
bands. Get out, platter! 

Stewart. Why call her platter? 

Allen. For reason of her variety. 

Grim. I'll throw this maul and wake her with the 
clatter. Now for it. ( Throws malletJ) 

Meg {from below). Let me alone, lads. Cannot let a 
poor body sleep? There's salt and bacon in the locker, 
and meal. Make mush. 

Grim. Make mush of thee, old sow, unless you come 
a-deck. 

Stewart. Let her alone; you will waste your breath 
and make no better. 

Allen. Not I. She must have been the only daughter 
of a fat devil. But I have it. Let her think that the 
skipper, her Moses, her rod is come. Then she will out. 

Grim. Ay, go ahead. 

Allen. O Meg, hush and quick! We would not have 
called you, but the skipper is a-coming. 

Meg" (from below). Oh, oh, oh! Tell him I'm down 
here for to get his bed ready. 

Allen. There's time and again, if you bestir. 

Enter Meg. 

Meg. Where is he? Where is master? 

Grim. It's to be hoped he's in the bottom of the river ; 
but now you have hoisted up, you can go about our mess. 

Meg. Oh, you dogs! Your bellies w ill never be done 
barking. You could not let a poor woman have a nap, 
but you pull her out to feed your paunches. Get thy own 



18 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

and be thankful for it. I'll not make porridge for your 
like. 

Grim. Nay, bitch. We know that cookery is not your 
trade, but you can do it on a pinch. 

Stewart. The skipper will tune this loose fiddle. 

Allen. She'll play another, and Lance comes. 

Meg. And you shall be blabbed for wishing the captain 
in the mud. He would make you ache for't, if he served 
you like the rogues before you. {Exit below.) 

Allen. What shall we do for our food, unless I cook it 
myself? Though there is hardly nothing in the larder, 
rotten potatoes, mangy bacon smoked with the door half 
open, and bran which a trader would call meal. As I 
live, this skipper puts our bellies into his pockets, for 
I have it straight, that is from old Lee's son, that our 
allowance is fair and hearty. 

Grim. Belike he has gone ashore for solicitation of us 
better fare, and that's what wakes him up nights. Oh! 
he has our welfare in mind. 

Allen. Ay, he will say it, but is it true? A question 
not to be asked. Then if 'tis a lie, what's the truth of it? 

Grim. Mischief, mischief ! He has it always on foot. 

Stewart. Well, let him walk on. I will have nothing 
to do with him, nor he with me. 

Grim. So has many a sparrow said, and been clawed 
by the hawk. But, look you, I pounce foremost. If he 
handles me as I have suspicion he has men before me, I 
will on a night throw a windlass chain over his neck and 
put both into the river. He has been before the law on a 
charge of murder, ay, and of his boatmen, but in another 
state. I have heard the juror could not agree for 
sympathy. No twelve sane men can e'er unite, and I 
know not why they chose that number, unless goods are 
sold more often in that measure. The right for a hang- 
ing is one out of a dozen, and in common cases ten. 

Stewart. What would you with his little honor, the 
cock in the pit? 

Grim. Oh, the money-box! I'd hang him for an ex- 
ample to the jury. He's nothing but a scarecrow to 
frighten the apostles with, or the bird that picks up what 
the dog lawyers have left ; or, save me, he's that tower that 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 19 

110 poor man can build to, but is touched easy enough 
from the high windows of the rich. If they were turned 
out every year and knocked about on election day, they 
would be more use than a pair of tongs. 

Allen. Why, mate, has any used you scurvily? 
Grim. No ; and may I be damned if they do. But my 
stomach calls me to account. Is there nothing in the 
pantry, that a fire can make into a man? 

Allen. The fire is not a thing to do with it. Ask what 
sort of a cook we have and 'twould be reason, for so as 
the cook, so is the larder. 

Grim. Who will be the spoon in the dough? 
Stewart. Not I. 

Allen. Tis I and no other. I am no pastry by hand but 

a cook by nature. I have had but little practice, and that 

not fine, but I can beat your Frenchman in and out at it. 

Grim. Come, how did you come by this knack of 

poisoning nature? 

Allen. Why, truth I got a broken leg, being a lumber- 
man in the upper Wisconsin, and was forced of it to lie on 
my back and watch a lousy Chinaman cater our food. 
Whereby I fell a-thinking and kicked him out with my 
able leg, and set up in the pan for myself. 
Stewart. That was hard on the Chinese. 
Allen. And for a time on the choppers, but I soon got 
the hang — 

Grim. Ay, you deserved nothing better. 
Allen. Fie! fie! till I had the hand for't. Then I 
was counted the best cook in the, region. No beggar but 
would come a mile to try me, and not a one but went 
away to my honor. I tell you what, I am no Frenchman, 
no dauber. I lay it down that there is meat, vegetables, 
and fruit. If you can get only meat, you will live; if 
only vegetables, you will be best off; if only fruit, you 
will be pleasant; but no uniting of these in one pie. As 
I live, a man should eat this, and that, and not this and 
that together. Oh ! if I took to cooking, doctors would 
have to live on my charity. 

Stewart. Stop prating. Methinks that is the skipper 
coming down the path. Ay, and sober. Now there's 
mischief afoot. 



20 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Grim. Get to work ! 

Stewart. Hoist! hoist! Now the big ones, lads! 
{They lift at bales.) 
Grim. Troll away ! 

Enter Lance. 

Lance. What's this? 

Stewart. All a load for three, sir. "Tis marked cotton, 
but I think 'tis rum. 

Lance. Get along ! You make a load out of nothing. 
All of these should be on the landing before this time. 
What ! but one ! You are the three laziest sons of 
whores ! Take that ! Now rub thyself. I will kick you 
a dozen next time. 

Grim. An' if you do it, I will empty your knave's 
skull with this skid. Oh, you murderer! I should save 
the sheriff a dirty job. 

Allen. Ay, lean guts. How many have you stabbed? 
How many have you robbed, pirate? 

Lance. What ! I could kill you all if I but put my 
hand on my hip, and 'twould pass in the law for self- 
defence. 

Grim. I tell you if you make a grab for't, I will break 
your head and your arm, and let out your gin-soaked 
brains. 

Lance. What does this mean, Stewart? Has Grim 
gone mad and clean claft? 

Stewart. Nay, sir. He was witty enough a while ago. 

Grim. And so am not I now. I will tell you a bit 
of it. First you abuse us most damnably, steal our 
rations, threaten us with bullets, give us the thanks of 
kicks, and stand ready drawn if we make a voice against 
it. Satisfy us with better fare and finer treatment, or 
we tell tales of you on sworn evidences. You shall 
swing and waver in the wind for your pains ; that's flat. 

Lance. Now get this out of thy noddle, Grim. You 
were always a firm man, an honest man, e'er since I knew 
you. Why should you come with your dog-eared com- 
plaints of starvation? What I have given, I give; what 
I have not to give, you must ask of his honor, not of me. 

Grim. We are hungry, no matter who robs our food. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 21 

That's warranted to be no mimic. If 'tis bis honor, 'tis 
not your fault. But there's no question that you abuse 
us like curs, and that you can make an end of when you 
will. 

Lance. Nay, do not say 'tis I, Grim. 'Tis not 
I myself, but another man, that mistreats you, under a 
drug, a pagan influence, as it were. You know that all 
of us have our fallings off, but in earnest, 'tis out of my 
nature, and you know it. For the food, I fare as you, 
but our bellies are no creatures of reason, and the judge 
has no reason whatsoever in his purse. 'Tis sewn up as 
tight as a sow's skin, and there's no getting inside, but 
you rip the swine open. So there's thorn against thorn. 

Allen. Then you shall lay this before his honor. 

Lance. That I will! and anything else that you have 
trouble in. Your pay is too small ; your quarters are too 
narrow; and above all, your food is stale. Though I 
hired you but shortly ago. I can remember yon long, for 
time has no power over our memory, but only things 
unusual. You deserve more than can here be got; that 
is, if you will earn it yourselves, for I reckon you have 
the right quantity of villainy to success. There must 
needs be a bit to every fortune, and most, the golden 
secret of silence. 

Grim. Av, we have it. That's all men's without an 
effort. 

Lance. No; 'tis the worst effort in all men. If I were 
sure that you had made and overcome it, I could put you 
on the direct way to fortune. 

Allen. We are mum. 

/Stewart. Ay, as still as a wink. 

Lance. Keep so, and you are made. Say nothing and 
you lose nothing. But ail your part is to wait and let 
affairs come to you. Now, let us eat what little we have. 
Where's Meg? Has the bitch not ordered our rations? 

Allen. No; she is asleep. 

Lance. Wake her up, the lark of the seven sleepers. 

Allen. Meg! Meg! Meg! the captain is here already. 

Meg (from belovj). Oh! boys, let me alone. Let me 
alone, and go to bed early. 

Lance. You butter ! I will churn ye. (Descends, and 



22 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

reappears driving Meg.) Now how does that hand feel, 
and this one? (Strikes her.) 

Meg. Oh! oh! oh! I was sick, master. 

Lance. You will need more medicine of the same kind. 

Scene IV. — In a wood. 
Enter Julia Lee and Jane Dor. 

Jane Dor. This is so sweet a morning, I could say- 
No sweeter e'er tuned earth. What birds do sing 
Thorough their shuttles, which anon they play 
Amid their web. Or some that's ready done 
Fly to their little ones with insects fluttering 
Between their lips. From which I'd fain imagine 
With rosy fancy, that they poured forth love 
Instead of bragging song. What cause is there 
To prove the contrary? 

Jul. Lee. I never heard any. 

And sure it is in autumn they grow shy 
And leave the orchards. Then in heavy woods 
They perch on the low branches, where before, 
All high exultant in the tops they sang. 
So it would seem that they are made of love. 
There is no better stuff to prove a man 
Or bird. 

Jane Dor. Oh, yes ! If one is true to love 
He's true to all the world. 

Jul. Lee. No, but I think 

Love is particular and of its kind, 
For some are good in that who otherwise 
Are false as sin. Some that wrong all mankind 
Except their wives, aud very wondrous little 
In sympathy, still keep their sweethearts true 
As on their marriage eve. 

Jane Dor. Yes, there are such. 

At least, I hear of them. But they are mated 
With women of their nature. 

Jul. Lee. But you cannot 

For that say love is not a thing alone, 
And not dependent e'en upon the world, 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 23 

The showing, or an afterthought; the first 
And grand exception in our nature. 

Jane Dor. Yes, 

In yours, my sweetest Julia. Your lover 
Can see that any time. If he were not 
The proper pattern of a good young man, 
And fully as much loved you as you do him, 
I would pity you. You are the fondest child 
That father ever darkened, and best love 
That e'er made a- man glad. Oh ! 'tis a shame 
You should not wed and wear him. If I ever 
Am mother of a daughter, I will tell her 
What makes a man, and point out such and such 
As well reputed and within my knowledge 
Suited for husbandry. Then if she will 
To choose another, I'll show forth the faults 
And flaws in him. That he is over-prim 
In cloth and manner, and appears to me 
A fop without and fool within; or spends 
Too much in luxury, which makes men selfish, 
And thereby worth no woman's consideration. 
Also robs from the household, but I count 
That secondary. But if she yet would have him 
Against my grain, she should, in peace and comfort, 
Not given o'er with reproof. 

Jul Lee. Oh ! if my father 

Had done as reasonable by me, I would not ' 
Now be so sad. 

Jane Dor. Well, cast it off, at least 
Until you know that they have hit a plan, 
As Conway and your brother promised to us. 
They will be here ere long, for lovers' watches 
Are always fast, and cannot on the tick 
Equal their hearts. We'll hot sit here in gloom, 
Like sad, unwedded mermaids on their coast, 
That I've heard tell. Come, cheer up, and be pleasant. 

Jul. Lee. I will, but there's small joy in common 
pleasures. 
Good health and independence are let to us 
Each minute, only left, we feel their want. 
I'd rather be one moment with my love 
Than dreaming of him for an absent month. 



24: COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Jane Dor. They will be here anon, and should have been 
Before this time. Hark ! was not that their voices? 
We shall have hours instead of moments, love. 

Jul. Lee. Hither they come. 

Enter M. Lee, H. Buel, and Conway. 

Con. Ho! are you here? 

Jane Dor. Yes, before you. 

Con. Our shame, 

Bat not our will. We were kept late by talking 
Among ourselves if you were cold or warm 
Unto our plans. 

Jane Dor. Why, we will hear them first. 

H. Buel. No, I will kiss you first. 

Con. Yes, I'll sit here 

Where I can rob you, love, a thousand kisses, 
And make of them sweet points unto my discourse. 

H. Buel. Wilt thou the same, Jane? 

Jane Dor. Oh ! a little stinted. 

H. Buel. No, my share is all. (Kisses her.) 

Jane Dor. You will leave none for to-morrow, if kisses 
Were spent like purses. 

M. Lee. The morning is going; 

We must determine here what we shall do, 
And not be idly dallying. We have plans, 
If they shall meet with your consent, will work 
To match your loves, and get me well away 
From my disgraces. Tell the matter to them, 
Conway. Maids hear lovers sooner than brothers. 

Con. Nay, help me out. 

M. Lee. Two at a truth make it 

A lie. Go on, and I will listen to you. 

Con. Oh ! I fear you will not approve of it. 

Jul. Lee. If 'tis to prove my love, 'tis all f oreproved, 
Consented, and ordained. I will listen to you 
Like one wrapt in your reason. 

Con. To be short, 

We met with Lance, and after full concern, 
Devised no better way than the blunt method 
Of leaving your father outright, to go 
Upon his boat. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 25 

Jane Dor. That's rash. 

Con. But necessary. 

We have tried every honest ways and means 
And found but this one. Then the pluck of reason 
Calls us to take it. Did I not have the promise 
Of Julia a year ago or more? 
And her false father sat smiling on us, 
And all his words were new, and all his eyes 
Followed our motions, or at least he said so; 
But now, methinks, I can recall the scene, 
And in't his face, on which the roads of mirth 
"Were travelled well, but in sooth his gray eyes 
Sat grim as milestones, which you could not pass 
But you must look at them, to see how far 
In his good graces you had journeyed on ; 
Deep dens of policy, and all for what? 
To break our hearts, which at that time he hoped 
Were firmly locked with the key of love. 
That was his very words. 

Jul. Lee. Oh ! this was once, 

But he persuades me now, that 'tis no love. 
But maiden fancy that possesses me, 
And quotes a thousand cases where young girls 
Have wed disaster. Thus stands opposite 
And shakes his finger at me, which does waver 
As grass blown by an angry gust of wind; 
And calls up like lawyers for precedents 
All unknown, barbarous bygones. It were best 
To take direct, plain things to argue on, 
Instead of generations I know not, 
All maidens of his youth. So I must either 
Call him the liar of these made-up proofs. 
Or else allow they are my own condition, 
Which I will not. But Conway, here's my hand 
And pledge, that I will always be with you 
In this endeavor. I am sick of waiting, 
Which ever tarries. He's immovable 
And glued to his opinions. 

Con. What's so quick 

To change men's minds as their own lookout, love? 
So do not wonder at it. There's bright time 
For us ahead. 



26 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

H. Buel. But not for me ; wise Jane's 
So circumspect to take our flight like that. 
I would choose her and leave the world ; be off, 
Away! 

Jane Dor. Fie, Fie! 

H. Buel. Nay, Jane, in love and truth, 

If you will go along with me. 

Jane Dor. But I 

Will not. You should have taken Julia 
Instead of me, for she would go with you, 
Or the desire of your parents both 
Gave let to you to love and live together. 

Jul. Lee. We never were together, or e'er we came 
My heart was given away ; but the cold closet 
Of friendship, that's next mason unto love, 
Is always open to you. 

H. Buel. I enter it, 

And may I never go out. 

M. Lee. What, of friendship? 

H. Buel. Ay, the mild passion. 

M. Lee. Mild ! that's mockery 

And parrot's talk. I'd rather cry for crackers 
Than take my cue from maudlin auctioneers 
Of sound opinion. Friendship is no dove ; 
And if she were, I'd swap her for an hawk, 
Or change acquaintances. Who is my friend 
Is none but mine, or he's a whore of friendship ; 
For 'tis as monitory, dear as love ; 
And who has more than one friend, if you note it, 
Will leave all for himself. 

Jane Dor. Your friends are scarce. 

M. Lee. So are lovers, that is of proper ways, 
For lovers are attracted by the body, 
And some by mind; but what does friendship dote 
Save the pure, glorious mind? Love has its conquests 
At glances of the eyes, but friendship probes 
Clear to the bottom of a man ; and look you, 
He does not pass twixt man and woman, but only 
Like as a godly messenger he flies s/ 

From man to man, and there's a reason for it. 
At least 'tis so, and there must be a reason. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 27 

Jul. Lee. One of those more hard to prove than show. 

M. Lee. Nay, something all men know but rarely speak. 
But haste ! I have set time with Lance to-day 
To make the stroke and place of our departure, 
If you are willing in the event. I know, 
Sweet sister, that you are prepared and ready, 
But I know not what to say for our Jane. 

Jane Dor. If you know not, you know my mind. 

M. Lee. You will not? 

II. Buel. Nay, I will answer for her. Oh, my love, 
Think on the weary days and wearier nights 
That we must lie alone, with our cold thoughts 
For bedfellows. Then in each other's company 
Before the world, how we must set ourselves 
To hard deception, which cannot defy 
The eyes of gossip ; so all will come out 
In secret, and my parents feel the harder 
Towards both of us. Secrets are more a sin 
Than crimes they cover with those that love us. 
Fie on a little wealth ; no man is poor 
Whose heart is strong, and I doubt that my father 
Would disinherit me for so small fault, 
Though he has set his soul on Julia 
By some connivance with his honor, which 
I cannot bottom, or perhaps a whim 
To have his way. A reason conquers reason, 
But nothing here can beat a prejudice. 
Then, love, go with me, for you see that waiting 
Will rather make our case stand worse than better. 

Jane Dor. No, your father is stubborn clay, and for 
your sake 
More than for mine, I am positive to stay. 

H. Buel. I tell you he could not disinherit me, 
Being an only son, so he must forfeit 
To charity, which holds no foot in court to blood, 
And all arise to me, save a small pittance 
To th' object of his wish, for poverty 
Is a poor dog contented with small bones. 
Moreover, there's no juror in this county 
But would be twelve for me against the church, 
Or any of his favors ; for all call me Harry, 
And I them the like. 



28 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Jane Dor. You are the best liked 

By every man, and one poor, faithful woman ; 
Nevertheless, I cannot, cannot love, 
For thought of being talked about, both now 
And years to come. How will the tooth of gossip 
Gnaw into me, and all my crowing enemies 
Throw up their heads, e'en in domestic life, 
When I become a matron or old dame, 
For age does season malice. Then believe me 
Our troubles will end joy, if you will wait 
For sorrow to pass over 

M. Lee. I'll be gone. 

H Buel. Ay, we cannot persuade her. I am sadder 
Than I have been for months; but Where's the captain? 

M. Lee. Oh, on some hill. 

Con. He takes the air like foxes. 

M. Lee. And I cut him oft' as does the hunter. Fare- 
well. (Exit.) 

Jul. Lee. Let us stay longer, while the sun shines fair, 
And I will make a wreath of maple leaves, 
Laid one above another, with their stems 
Piercing their hearts. We'll hear soft-throated birds 
Make sweetest music on their tender ch>rds; 
And best of all, I'll hear your own sweet voice, 
Which is more tender to me than their sons. 

Con. Oh, I could stay till evening and beyond ; 
But that's a time to think on more than others, 
For in my recollection 'tis the one 
Whereon, say striking eight, I walked with you 
This self-same spot, while to our backs the sun 
Just disappeared. What happy hours were those ! 

Jane Dor. I beg you not to leave them. Oh, remain 
And try once more your father's disposition ! 

Jul. Loe. Tis harsh, unnatural, and will not give 
A jot to me. 

Jane Dor. Nay, I have known dull men 
Knocked by a fancy, give up all their case, 
And clean outdo their former advocate; 
For stubbornness walks with the tide, now back 
As far as it stepped up. Besides, your father 
Hates to see trouble, like all eowardlv men, 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 29 

And runs at tears, but being well away 
Forgets them in his comfort. We will make 
Your sorrow pangs to him, and try again 
The eloquence of pity. 

Con. 'T would be wasted breath. 

Jane Dor. Ay, on yourself, which is cheap luxury 
And a great consolation. 

Con. Nay, I tell you 

Who asks with whines will be received with kicks. 

Jane Dor. Well, be a beggar of rights and smooth 
Your steep demands with show of humbleness. 
He will be putty to my fingers. 

H. Duel. But I warrant you that he has not a mere 
yeasty head. If you ever happened to sound it with a 
knot, you would have found it solid to the touch. Ay, 
it will echo half a mile and more I believe. 

Jul. Lee. What's that to do with my sadness? If to ask 
him again will do any good, I am the last to shirk the 
hardest of all things, — kneeling. At least it will work no 
harm, if there is no hope. I am of a mind to beg him 
once again with your comfort, Jane. 

Jane Dor. Oli, you have the beauty and the rarer wit 
of an angel. 

(Exeunt omnes.) 

ACT II. 

Scene I. — A hill. Enter M.Lee. 

M.Lee. Oh! for a hand, that I might paint my 
thoughts 
In image as they rise. Oh ! for a hand — 
Ho! here he comes. How fare you, Lance? 

Lance. Why, sparely, sparely, saving your identity, 
sir. 

M. Lee. Now what's the matter, captain? 

Lance. You are — you are — you are — 

M. Lee. Martin Lee. Has the devil possession of 
your senses? 

Lance. Doubtless mv devil has me and entertains me. 



30 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

God ! God ! God ! You are Lee, and no doubt. That's 
a fine name. You have many relatives in China, and I 
have known several in Hong Kong. But look you, do 
not own them and enter in with them. There's no good 
man but is worse off for his kin. But foolery aside, 
would you like to travel, young man? 

M. Lee. Ay, passing well, Lance. 

Lance. So thought I once, and indeed I have wan- 
dered far and wide ; not, mind you, in tubs like these, but 
in tall ships, and in the forecastle, till I was wanted no 
more by the merchants. I had become too wise to suit 
them. But I am satisfied if they are. Let them make 
their balance even and I am no loser. 

M. Lee. That were happy. 

Lance. Very — for me. Now if you would journey, 
whereto? 

M. Lee. Oh ! the world over. 

Lance. Wrong, my kite, wrong. If you know your 
own habitation, make up your circuit thus wise. Go not 
to the east — to China, Hindoo, or Egypt, or Palestine — 
for the people there are stocks and stones ; were ever and 
will always be so. They are the only people that you may 
know by description, because they are so like beasts and 
herbs they can be taken in with the eye, and no traveller 
I e'er read had more. That is why fools that talk about 
them hit them so close. They can paint a dog, but not 
a man. Therefore walk not in their dust, but turn to 
Europe. 

M. Lee. And there shall I find naught but men? 

Lance. No, a good sprinkling of dogs, but a paucity 
of men here and there, and these be what you are looking 
after. If you would go among them, be to the Irish 
polite, and to the Scotch praise and quote their songs, 
and make a mark especially of Burns. With the English 
you must part your tongue. With your gentlemen, praise 
nothing but across the channel, as your fine French or 
Italians or Austrians, for they can abide nothing British. 
But with the merchants and the like, honor naught but 
that within the Isle, for they damn all foreign. Although 
you may be honey in the ears of all by cursing us Ameri- 
cans, for they hate us as nobody else ; and now I think 
that is the best and certain way. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 31 

M. Lee. That's good advice, sir. 

Lance. Nothing, nothing; but mind you be cautious 
with the French. Mount them up as the first in every- 
thing, and they will be no more than half satisfied, but 
if you shall venture on the secondaries you are damned 
in the opinion of every man among them. As for the 
Germans, you must swim into their good graces. If you 
will not drink yourself to a hog, they will think you no 
man, and, like enough, want to fight you with their 
swords; but lay your hand on your pistol and cry, " This 
or nothing!" They will grow civil. They reckon that 
their scars cannot make them any uglier, but they are 
clean opposed to taking chances of death. Parley 
Emmanuel to the learned and they will think you as good 
as a pupil, but tell them off-hand that German has the 
easier compounds than the Greek, they will stair you up 
to heaven, though you know not hardly ten words of 
German and not a letter of Greek. 

M. Lee. You are a comfortable guide, captain. How 
about the Dutch, both high and low, the Swiss, Russians, 
Turks, Spauish, and Italians? 

Lance. The Italians — hum — I know little of them ; 
but if you happen to be in Naples, and jostle them on the 
gravel, cry, " Pardon, monsignors," or you are like to get 
a dagger in your ribs. They always carry this furniture 
of death around with them. Be also not too proud. 
Dress not too ostentatious and look not too mighty on 
ill-lit streets, especially of late years. A dirty mess, 
withal, to the best of my judgment. 

M. Lee. I am content to take it, sir, both in what 
things are now and what's to come. My sister easily 
came round to our plans. We are made up to it, save 
Jane, who is more prudent than passionate. 

Lance. And she will stay? 

M. Lee. Yes. 

Lance. Then there will be one woman less, which will 
mean one less man. That's the way of the world. If 
you take one you take two. 

M. Lee. Have you knowledge what day you will be 
freighted to start? 

Lance. By Friday. 



32 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

31. Lee. Now I remember, my father mentioned it. 
Are the boatmen sealed? 
Lance. All with the wax of my wit. {Exeunt.) 

Scene II. The sick-chamber of Justice Lee. 
Enter Jane Dor. 

Jane Dor. I'll ope the window, so the morning air 
Will blow in on your honor. There's no medicine 
An equal to it. How does it affect you? 

Js. Lee. Not half as sweet as kisses. 

Jane Dor. Oh, for shame ! 

Js. Lee. Nay, shame is public property, and we 
Will be all private. If I had my legs 
I would rob one of you, but this vile sickness , 
Is not so bad itself as it does keep 
Me from your lips. 

Jane Dor. Oh ! as I am your nurse — 

Js. Lee. Ay, my nurse, love, and therefore 'tis your 
duty 
To give me your most sovereign remedy — 
A kiss — that carries nothing and takes nothing 
Away by it. 

Jane Dor. That's more logic than virtue. 

Js. Lee. You need not call love by another name 
Than love. I hardly knew him till I saw 
How pretty he was in you. Maidens before 
Have tempted me, but you are the first, Jane, 
To make me love for many a long year; 
And you are thorny. 

Jane Dor. As maidens should be. 

Js. Lee. Why, not so brief. I could hear to your words 
Flow o'er the banks of your sweet lips from now 
Till evening. 

Jane Dor. Your honor has lost your reason. 

Js. Lee. I'm gone mad with love of thee, but I should 
hold 
A man a fool, and in that way, out of sense 
If he could be otherwise. 

Jane Dor. You are insane. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 33 

Js. Lee. Who ever heard an insane man make love? 
Nay, Jane, I tell you 'tis the loss of it 
That drives men mad ; and if you do deny me, 
I shall go crazy. 

Jane Dor. That's most sad, your honor. 

Js. Lee. And you do know how often lunatics, 
If they have loves to dote on, will recover, 
Like lamps set in the passages and alleys 
Of their dim, wandering minds. But I ne'er knew 
A man made wild with love to shake it off 
And come back healthy. More often they rush 
In to their weapons. I feel at this moment 
As I should do the same if you refuse me. 

Jane Dor. Now you are out of tune for good. I know 
Not what you rant about; why this large talk 
Of consequence and arms. If 'tis a kiss, 
Methinks you would load guns for fleas. 

Js. Lee. Jane ! 

Jane Dor. What! is your honor sick? 

Js. Lee. Do not imp me, 

And piece out my sad phrases. You do know 
That soul and body are a lover's fee, 
And he will take no less. 

Jane Dor. Oh ! you would have 

The sweets of marriage for yourself, and leave me 
When you got tired ; but I must cling to you 
Like dirty clothes, and put aside to wash 
When you want clean ones. Thereby are we spoiled, 
Being but tender fabrics, but vile men pass muster 
Though they do rouse their nights in brothels, av, 
And on rank, sweaty beds pollute themselves. 
This is smoothed over with the palm of custom 
To a mere wink. You are a wretch to tempt me, 
And I should hold myself lower than you 
To give the little treasure of a kiss. 

Js. Lee. Now you do me more wrong than an opponent 
In politics. My total thought and care 
Were of your likings, for I reasoned thus 
And thus along; considering your youth, 
Which moults it ? s fancy, like young eaglets' pinions, 
And goes a better pitch ; and that my age, 



34 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Though middle and sturdy, is not within years 
Young maidens like to linger; it would seem 
You would become less fond of me, as time 
Ground down your passion. Then you could 
Leave me for another choice, and none wiser 
Than your own lips betray ; for I had rather 
Give up your bed and heart, than hold them seconds 
Without their full consent. But for my faith 
'Tis frozen, and at this late time of life 
Can never thaw. The purest water makes 
The purest ice; so was my young stream cleansed, 
It could not thicken muddy. 

Jane Dor. Do you think 

Not of the law, the rights, and my good name? 

Js. Lee. Ay, all of them. Your fair repute will lose 
No color of its fairness, for you know 
I am no babbler to boast to common brooks, 
That fly their words against what man they meet; 
Especially old men, chirping of love. 
I'm none of them, but silent, secret, stern, 
As you see me. Scandal could not reach me. 
How does my face, my stark propriety 
And high position shed their evil rain? 
And neath this roof we may enjoy each other, 
And let the world blow by. Come, come ! my love. 
Oh ! do not look at me. Would you accuse me? 
If I do wrong or even speak an evil, 
'Tis an infirmity of nature, dear ; 
The spring beyond my touch, beyond my birth. 
We are brought into the world already formed, 
Made up, complete, and naught can work us change. 
There's an excuse will stand the world in plea, 
And but another, how I would convince you 
That wickedness is a name and sin a shadow, 
Except the injury of our fellowmen. 
Law, law ! a deep old bag ! What's law to me? 
Naught but my prop, and when I have a hold 
On anything above, I spurn it out; 
Even like the mincls of men or love of women, 
Let down from heaven ; not stayed up from earth. 
But come, I wander Will you give me promise? 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 35 

I see relentment that looks from your eyes 
Upon the floor. My years, like roses on me, 
Are weightless flowers. 

Jane Dor. You speak fair enough. 

Js. Lee. On my faith, Jane. 

Jane Dor. Faith is weak oaths. Did you 

Not promise Julia upon your faith 
To wed young Conway; and when you found 
A richer groom, rake up old scraps of parlance 
Like a true lawyer 'gainst him? How should I 
Expect a fairer faith from you than she, 
Poor girl, and only daughter Now her cheeks 
Have lost all color, though they were before 
A morning red. And her complaints come soon 
And late a-rapping at mine ears. 

Js. Lee. Fie, Jane, 

Have you been fooled by a silly girl? You are 
Too knowing of their nature to be melted 
With love-sick tears ; Julia will be better 
For a slight discipline; for her love is only 
A school-girl's fancy, vanished in an hour, 
As they do say. A month hence she forgets 
That she knew Conway, and will smile as pleasant 
As she were in his arms. 

Jane Dor. Shame, sir, she's sick 

And near to die. Such things occur quite often 
Upon the moment, and they call them suicide. 
At least all but the coroner, who's paid 
To plead insanity. If you had eyes 
For anything but your own lust, you w r ould 
Without a second look, see she was pale 
As her own winding-sheet. She has the visage 
Of one about to die, a certain flowing 
Backward of all her features, which I know 
To mark the end of hope. Oh, sir ! wake up 
To bitterness upon a morning short, 
And find her drowned. 

Js. Lee- Nay, you see it through glasses, 

And your love, Jane. Tis not as serious 
As that, but I may have been casual 
In spyiug it, and rather judged her sadness 



36 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

By general, which after all fits poorly, 

Like waist-coats drawn at lottery. But faith, 

Who does not call young people shallow wise, 

And try to wade them, where they may prove deep? 

If I had looked into her and found out 

She took him so to heart, I would as soon 

Stabbed in my vitals, as taken her life 

Away by pining; could a father think 

A girl would be so silly? 

Jane Dor. I should judge 

The contrary, considering your passion, 
Which has not the excuse of coltish blood. 
Why, but this moment your deep-congested eyes 
Did make the maddest love e'er borne through air, 
And then, with all, you cannot find excuse 
For a darling maid's desires. 

Js. Lee. I am wrong 

And righten it by owning up. Jane, 
Forgive me, and be my penitence ! 

Jane Dor. Nay, not a bit, until you dress with promises 
Each journeying word. 

Js. Lee. My word is my oath. 

But for the once, I swear they shall be married 
According to your wish. 

Jane Dor. Now you are kind. 

Js. Lee. Wilt thou not be of a kindred sweet? 

Jane Dor. Wait, wait, your honor. You do under- 
stand the hardest lesson to learn is from thyself. Mark it. 

Js. Lee. I have it in my note-book. 

Jane Dor. No, keep it in your head ; for you can leave 
your note-book, and by God's special grace not your head. 
These f ellows of, copy have naught in their pates ; and 
notes and entries are wasted time withal. Therefore, 
write this inwardly. 

Js. Lee. Hark, hark! Jane. Is not a step in the hall? 

Jane Dor. A step, but is there a man behind it? 

Js. Lee. Methiuks 'tis Lance. Who raps? Come in. 

Enter Lance. 

Lance. Faith you will know me. By my visage I am 
an exceptional raven. Sorry I am to break in on, to 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 37 

break between, to uncouple, as it were, such good com- 
pany ; but a whisper of your mishap had come to me, and 
I needs must come round for the sake of old sympathy. 
But pardon, pardon, have I disturbed this twain phil- 
osophy? 

Js. Lee. Nay, Lance. Our reflections can keep. Jane 
was lamenting that Julia did not come to my quarter re- 
gards wedlock, for you know she is set on that penniless 
mast, Conway, or a reed for his strength, but a mast for 
the sail he carries. 

Lance. A deserving young man; a pretty young man. 
The right mould for any number of grandchildren your 
daughter can bless you with. If I owned as much good 
and as few heirs as your honor, I would be looking 
around for the very shape of a gentleman. He's the 
right copy to make good heirs out of. 

Jane Dor. And mark you, sir, he has the graces and 
true affections of a lover; and above everything, the 
regard of Julia. If it were otherwise, or an unequal 
match, she would die of what the doctors call love-sick- 
ness. 

Lance. Truly, I have in mind a death of that forlorn- 
ness, after a long cough. The affliction was none other 
than my sister, but virtuous, very. 

Js. Lee. That's enough, by faith. I would not kill her; 
I would not strain her a particle. But maiden fancies con- 
sort not with father's wisdom, now I'm persuaded. If 
she takes the man to heart, she will take him to bed, and 
the devil cannot stop her. Though I wish the cock had 
his neck wrung for keeping me awake. But look you, 
after she has him she shall keep him. 

Jane Dor. There will be no trouble, your honor. 

Js. Lee. Devoutly, devoutly, Jane. If Conway is not 
a calf, his voice is not like his mother's. But give them 
fair words and definite promises if you run against either 
of them. I will be a messenger of good news to sail 
over the gulf I have late made. 

Jane Dor. Fare your bark well. I will go ahead to 
sound them. (Exit.) 

Lance. Now what has got into your spout? Are you 
clean clogged with sentiment? I thought it was agreed 



38 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

your daughter was to wed Harry Buel, and we were to pick 
his bones." 

Js. Lee. So 'twas, Lance, but I thought not 'twas so 
sad a case. Julia is worse off for love than most women 
are for fashion. She has gone into paleness and such 
folly, which worries me like a nightmare, now Jane has 
called it to mind. 

Lance. Tut, tut! 

Js. Lee. Nay, Lance, in all truth. She is by no means 
in love of Harry, nor Harry of her. I'm persuaded. 

Lance. Here's a pinch at both toe and heel. 

Js. Lee. No, Lance, and therein is the oddity. Though 
Harry has no strong feeling for Julia, yet he would wed 
her for my sake, if I lift a finger. He's that tenderness 
for me, he will dance to any music I play. I am more 
than a father to him. 

Lance. Very like a deep puzzle, your honor. What's 
the cause? 

Js. Lee. I know not, Lance ; but that he is mine I do 
know. There are those subtile spirits that can lay their 
affection where they will, and the return will come with- 
out asking. I am that resemblance, Lance. He has 
given to me what his own father has robbed him of. 
Oh ! rest yourself on him. The rub comes on the other 
part, as it doth always. Oh ! the perversity of women. 

Lance. 'Tis a great pity, your honor. Why should a 
girl canker at an even change in mankind? It vexes me. 
If I spoke homely, I would say your daughter was too 
fine. 

Js. Lee. You are a plummet, Lance. 

Lance. But for all you will humor her? 

Js. Lee. I cannot help myself. There are more 
beggars for her than every dollar I rake. I am shot 
through with petitions. I am accused of her death, 
and my peace is tormented. Then am I near dead my- 
self, for life is comfort who says to the contrary. Here 
has Jane been giving me naught but pills of worry, instead 
of balm for my bruises. . 

Lance. Have you become a mocking bird to a penny 
whistle, to talk of death from love? I have known a 
dozen prim school-girls in my time, who dared death in 
tears, but were happy enough on their wedding night. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 39 

Js. Lee. I could tell another dozen, captain. They are 
as common as leaves in autumn. It is a musty saying : 
Give a girl her way and she will take another. This Buel 
is in an open field, where we may reap at our wills, and 
if it were not for his hobbly father, I would warrant to 
glean him in no time. But he must die soon ; he must die. 
He has the crook of damnation in him already for the 
devil to handle him with. Let's see; he goes on eighty. 
Hum, another year will end him. Then this son would 
be as easy as a berry on a bramble. I have a great dis- 
position to do the knot, Lance, spite of the strings. 

Lance. That would be a double blessing, but a knotty 
question. 

Js. Lee. Not as I'm persuaded, Lance. I will smooth 
over this daffodil, for Buel is willing, and Julia must 
come to it. After she has endorsed this fellow, she will 
love him better. That has as good outlook as a false 
face. 

Lance. Ay, and a feature behind it. If you buy the 
land you addressed me on, you must put up a clean fifty 
thousand. If you purchase but half the timber you will 
make but half the profit on sale. 

Js. Lee. 'Twill stand me a hundred in three years, 
will it not, Lance? 

Lance. Twice that, now that more building is on the 
gain. 

Js. Lee. Fifty, and I can lay my hands on.no more 
than twenty-five. How much may a man own and how 
little have in medium. All my other ventures are so 
good I cannot rob certainty for chances. I could bor- 
row, but interests run so high I can make more by lend- 
ing out. If I can worm the tallow out of Buel as I 
counted on, the hog might grunt for his pains. 

Lance. An easy thing. 

Js. Lee. No, the saddest step in my life. If I force 
Julia to it, there will be no end of sobs and taking on. 
From a point of policy it shines well, from a point of 
justice to her it has a fair aspect, but to myself it means 
no end of discomfort, and that sort of philosophy 
children prattle. But I will consider. What a pleasure 
that things decide themselves without thinking. I will 



40 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

let this sit in my mind and the cream will rise to the top 
of its own accord. Now to our business. Will you load 
with flour on this trip? The boat has a leak, and a dozen 
of them for all I know; and the grain might mildew. 
Had I better not ship in a tighter bottom? 

Lance. No, no ; if it gets musty, I know enough mer- 
chants who never unstop the head, an easy thing. Do 
you not remember a like case that I took in hand and 
disposed of? 

Js. Lee. Ay, something of a kind ; but for a word. 

Enter Harry Buel. 

H. Buel. What! my excuses are all in my face. I did 
not think to disturb your business, but to find an utterly 
broken man, as people said. Oh, sir ! this happiness lays 
over my excuses. 

Js. Lee. Not so bad, Harry. The gossips always 
double happenings unless they be something good. A 
damned, long-armed pickpocket dubbed me knight over 
the head, but I live lighter. 

H. Buel. Oh ! give me the shape of the villain, father ; 
the astronomy of his face, and I will lay my finger on 
this man or that man. I will do an act of love with a 
matter of duty, and turn deputy to account. What was 
the time, the spot, the speech, the act, the voice, the 
color of raiment and length o' the cudgel? 

Js. Lee. For the last, Harry, the stick is the most 
plain, and its length was a good ten yard. You may 
take a picture of" it from my skull, knob for knob and 
hollow for hollow ; the time near ten ; the spot a dark, 
murderous hole ; the speech like the knell of death, and 
the act — oh, I shall not forget it! Out he steps as tall 
as his shadow and says not a word, but breaks a twig- 
behind me, at which I look over my shoulder, whereat he 
whisks out a club and passes at my head, but I boldly hit 
him back and take him fearfully somewhere, for he 
groans deep and at me with all his might. Then the 
cudgel takes me from my feet, as if the whole world 
were on the end of it, and throws me so far to one side 
he could not find me in the laurel when he looked for my 
cash. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 41 

Lance. Why, did he not rob you? 

Js. Lee. Ay, took of me what I had, which was a good 
sum, as much as I should have given to a thousand 
beggars. 

H. Buel. I will take a memorandum of this. Done 
for booty, an assault ! What said you was the amount, 
father-in-law? 

Lance- A thousand pennies, sir deputy. 

Js. L,ee. Hum, ten plus twenty and five. Add for 
yourself, Harry. 

H. Buel. Now I have it. I will pass it through the 
maw of the sheriff. We have the clue and we wind and 
wind. We will trace it into the belly of some fish. Such 
reckless money-making should have a rope around its 
neck, for sure it should. If we should hap to catch the 
rogue, had we not better hang him off-hand? 

Lance. Oh, you have cause to feel proud of your son. 
Now, there are some that would have broken their 
father-in-law's head. I could name you certain that 
would not have stickled to do it. Oh, he is a sweet 
child, your honor; but go hang with such violence, say I. 
There's likelihood that the thief was a familiar, and 
knew how hard a blow an elderly man could stand under 
and live. 

H. Buel. I plead my passion for my father and no 
more excuse. 'Twas love and not hardness of office that 
made me say such things. 

Js. Lee. My poor blessings on you, Harry, which to 
say most of them have no high standing in heaven. I 
can read you without logic. You are writ in the print 
of nobleness. But caution : 'twould be fun for me to try 
my own case. A rare joke, Harry. 

Lance. This is the humor of a cock judge from a 
chicken lawyer. Let me in you juror and I will make 
short work of this fellow. 

Js. Lee. Nay, captain, I am no revenger now; as odd 
as it appears, I have no ill feeling against this highway- 
man. If he were stretched before me, for my soul I 
could not kick him. What is that longing they call 
revenge, a thing unknown to me? But if the scamp had 
robbed my good name, or backbitten my reputation, 
then I would have had a feeble notion of revenge. 



42 COMFORT IN A COIiNEK. 

H. Buel. That's a nobility beyond pedigree, and good 
proof we shall live happy as son and father. If two of 
a mind quarrel, who can agree? 

Js. Lee. Always in peace of mind, son. If greatness 
has it not, greatness is no comfort. If position is on the 
thorns, position had best dismount. If a husband has it 
not, a husband had best live bachelor. I would love 
better to call you my son-in-law than the moon my king- 
dom ; but if it were disposed by heaven that you were to 
be my son in fret, I would forego you to my grief. My 
sweet Julia has sour fancies, Harry. I cannot under- 
stand them ; nay, they are beyond the understanding of 
men, but passable to women; for Jane tells me she does 
pine that she must wed you. Heavenly grace, not that 
you are not the pattern of a man, but because she is 
suited with such loose stuff as that Conway. Indeed, you 
know two garments are a hinder in warm weather. One 
must be thrown and one worn, whereby she is dressed 
in this gaudy Conway, and has no mind for fair colors 
like you; in short she jilts you, Harry. 

H. Buel. And this for final? 

Js. Lee. No, my boy; do not look so like the inside of 
doctors' books, where the seven deadly sins are followed 
by the seventy deadly diseases. I say you, she has an 
iudisposition, but not beyond me, not beyond your own 
urgency. If she were put to it, she would be your 
pleasant love, and not a doubt of it, Harry. 

H. Buel. Do not force her. I would not have her 
body if I could not her free will. 

Lance. The deputy has it, your honor. You should 
note the nature of love, the degree of love, and the fit- 
ness of love. By this you may know the course of love. 

Js. Jsee. What is done shall be done for your good, 
Harry ; for the good of ail means the blessing of one. 
I will speak with your father and mother and persuade 
Julia to my bidding-; but how it comes on, a little thing 
cannot break or bind us, Harry. If I need a good turn, 
I shall call on you, and if you e'er need the like, come to 
my bounty. 

H. Buel. I hold your love more than that. I must 
away on the errand. {Exit.) 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 43 

Lance. Our business is coming on well. 

Js. Lee. Yes. What's the hurry? 

Lance. To hurry up our business. 

Js. Lee. Not so fast. Take time ; either you or your 
creditor will die. 

Lance. God spare the difference. Better health to 
you another time. {Exit.) 



Scene III. — The sheriff's inn and street near by. 

Enter Lance and Squire Buel at a distance. 

Lance. Here comes a man and I'll ask him the way to 
the sheriffs office. Old and crooked. Well, old men 
should have learned politeness, if they have it not in 
them. By my soul, 'tis old Buel. I would look him in 
the eye out of curiosity. I have seen him, but he has 
not me. His reputation is none of the best, and mine is 
none of the worst. Then we should be friends. But he 
has a rude name among people, and report never lies. 
That is second report of long standing. Ha ! how he 
hobbles ! how he creeps ! There were a picture to set 
vanity in tears. How do I remember him once. But 
hush ! Good-morning, sir. Can you point me to the 
sheriff's office? 

Sq. Buel. What! what! 

Lance. Your good graces and the road to the sheriff. 

Sq. Buel. Ahead ! ahead ! follow your nose. 

Lance. Indeed, if 'twere as long as yours, there would 
be no question, but a binnacle, a straight lead. But as I 
am strange to this part, will you spare a word? Where 
abides the law? 

Sq. Buel. Oh, you snuff color ! I will crack thy head 
open with this cane. 

Lance. Though I am snuff, I am nothing to sneeze at. 
I could blow out your brains with a good will, if 'twere 
not against custom. 

Sq. Buel. Oh, you shall hear from me. 

Lance. The very thing, sir. Let me hear where lives 
the sheriff. 



44 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Sq. Buel. Dog, get out of my sight, or — 

Lance. Stop your barking. People are running as 
your old voice were the cracked bell of doom. I will 
remember you as long as I live, but forget you presently. 
Move on. There now. (Exit Buel.) That's good riddance. 
Straight ahead, did he say? I will walk slowly and keep 
my eyes out. Not far, not far, I hope ; for every family 
is looking at me behind the shutters. There's a new 
coon in town. But here's my man, County Sheriff 
hung over a tavern sign-board. Well, I will enter iii. 
It seems the law is set on the shelf. I know this pub- 
lican of old. (Enters the bar.) Gin, please you. (The 
sheriff appears.) 

Sheriff. No, as it please you, sir. You may take your 
'pick the world over. 

Lance. Then gin the world over. That's a beverage 
out of fashion. Not brandy, nor whiskey, though they 
be drinks for a man, but gin for me. As for beer, 'tis 
vile stuff. We knew nothing of it till your Englishman 
and weeping German brought it over. While we take 
strong drinks in small doses, we will be hale and cour- 
ageous ; when we swill it out of hog troughs, we will be 
of that family. I'll drink to old acquaintances, friend. 

Sheriff. Old or new, 'tis all one to me. ( They drink.) 

Lance. No; friendship, like drink, is the better for 
age. Methought your face was a familiar coin. Do you 
not recall me? 

Sheriff. Hum, no, sir, though yours is a good face, a 
very honest face, but I think we remember villains 
longest; for as the world runs, honest men are thickest. 
Visages become mere circles to me, I see so many. 
There are my prisoners, my customers and my every-day 
acquaintances. You were never my prisoner, that's cer- 
tain ; nor my customer before, for I never saw a man 
could drink the like of gin with you in so short a minute. 
Then if you know me at all, you know me casually. 

Lance. Yes, by an incident, a casual. That was the 
manner of it. 'Twas not long ago. Methinks either this 
month or next of last year; in a house in Cincinnati. 
This house is known to but few, the alley wherein it 
sits to still less, and the door to a purse full of us. 
Now, am I familiar? 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 45 

Sheriff. Let nie look at you, friend. Turn your eyes 
into mine. As yet I have not fairly met you. That's the 
pose. No, you can put round your back. You may know 
a man by his back as well as his face, and most to men 
of my calling. Now, now ; nay. I do not remember you, 
though your look is not to be forgot. But what's your 
name ? 

Lance. My father called me Lance and my mother 
James. If you can put one and one together, you will 
make James Lance, who am I. 

Sheriff. That's no name of my knowledge. It's more 
than like you mistook me for another officer. The law 
is a hard file and scrapes us to a near likeness. 

Lance. Nay, I can prove it to you. You remember on 
that day you had spoken for temperance on one of the 
forty platforms in the streets. At least you boasted 
the fact to us, and gave us a merry mock sermon over 
the toddy. Oh ! 'twas this humor that reminds me of 
you. If I had seen only your face, it might have passed 
me quite, but we laugh away our best hours. Who can 
lose them? Now I remember you, stretched on three 
chairs and going over the letters of your harangue. Oh ! 
'twas the humor that is my landmark. You were a 
treasure, for a man of wit does not live like the rest of 
us dull fellows, to fill his coat and no more, but to keep 
us from getting dead drunk in the dumps. Who is 
fuddled in a merry mood wakes up in good temper. 

Sheriff. Faith, it all comes to me, the whole scene, 
and you with it. How is it a man cannot recall one 
thing, but a dozen together. You were of the company 
and sat to my back. All the blessed night my name was 
ringing through the streets like a bullet to topers. A 
freak of mine, a way to win money on the grace of God. 
There's little made at following heaven through and 
through, but you can chop in now and then and turn an 
honest penny. 

Lance. The humor of it. I knew that would remind 
you of me. Yes, I was at your feet, your disciple as 
'twere. How did I then long for your wit, and think 
what you let go with no care, and no profit. Now if 
Squire Lee cries percentuvn ten, he gets the tithe due to 



46 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

God ; but if an honest man tries an increase on his 
abilities, they will not send him one in a thousand. 

Sheriff. That was my case. A penny won from honest 
people and spent on honest living is an honest penny. 
Then the humor of it. I cannot get over the nature bred 
iu me. On the whole 'twas wicked and not to be spoken 
of; not to be mentioned to dull people, such as split 
jokes. 

Lance. Oh, certain, and other things beside. They 
would not leave my lips to fly around among stupid folks. 
There's a telegraph of mirth between us. That night I 
near died with laughter. You owed this Lee, this 
moneyed employer of mine, a round sum, and having not 
the means to pay forthwith, on an evening you drove 
out his sty and slaughtered them, and after sold him the 
pork for the amount of your debt. I am no cart for 
your humor, but my unable shortness turns it sour. 
Nevertheless, I love what I cannot do, and know what I 
cannot tell. 

Sheriff. Let me think. I have some faintness of it. 
There was some such prank played for a wager of fun, 
and I was in it. But 'twas nothing to be held for, a 
legal distinction. 

Lance. A joke on the law, Mr. Sheriff. 

Sheriff. That's all. It was not burglary, larceny or 
breach of trust. I was no burglar, because I broke no 
lock. I stole nothing, because I returned what I stole. 
I broke no confidence, because I held none in trust. 
Being sued for trespass. I defend myself that I went not 
where those who forbade me not went not. In fine I 
bring suit for remuneration for packing the pigs, which 
his honor must allow, as he was a butcher before me. 
Tell not a story but you tell a whole story. I hardly 
knew my creature in your fur. 

Lance. I was either too drunk to hear, or you to tell. 
A gill more of your gin, that will furnish me. Does 
your sweet lady — but a teaspoonful. That fits every 
mouth and stomach. Man was made on the last of a tea- 
spoon, or doctors have grown him to it. 

Sheriff. This is rare. 

Lance. The best of its kind. Here's to your lady and 
six children. Have you more? 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 47 

Sheriff, Two. 

Lance Then here's to the other two, the shot stars. 
If I had as many to drink to, I would be drunk all the 
time. 

Sheriff. I have heard Englishmen say that they rang 
the beils at a royal birth for joy that there was one 
bumper more. Another bumper born. 

Lance. Save me, but that's no comparison. You put 
humor into your drink, which can ne'er be said they 
do. 

Sheriff. If every man were like you, I had only to 
turn my wit loose in a hall and rake in the cash. Then 
that corking of evil deeds, poverty, would no more afflict 
me. 

Lance. No, take my Word. If you can hold one man 
you can a thousand, for a thousand is less than one 
man. 

Sheriff. That's sweet advice, and makes you my friend 
out of hand. What is here contained is yours, and what 
not is yours if I had it. 

Lance. That does show how generous your heart is. 
But I want nothing free, save your humor. Enough, 
enough. What! here's a customer. I will be on my 
way. 

Sheriff. Not so fast. Only Harry; Harry with his 
horsewhip ; Harry my deputy. 

Enter H. Buel. 

Know this man, Harry? One Captain Lance, and a famous 
drinker. 

H. Buel. We are known to each other. 

Lance. Ay, I know Harry and I know his horsewhip. 
I would know more of him, but not of his whip. Hal 
ha ! here I am rammed between the walls of humor. How 
much would I have given to see you pat the pate of old 
Lee. Oh ! I shall burst with laughter. Laughter has its 
home in the corners of the mouth, but 'tis all through 
me. Did he strike out? Was he valiant? I wish you 
had scalped him. 

H. Buel. How came you by it, captain? 

Lance. By your own confession ; but I shall die in the 



48 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

face of so much humor. Oh ! you load me clown with it. 
Adieu. {Exit) 

Sheriff. Now Harry, your prank will be spouted out 
over town and the like with mine he has hold of. 

H. Bud. Why, has Tim and the sheep out? Oh! the 
damned hole thy brother Tim has, where other people 
keep a still mouth. 

Sheriff. No, not that; but he knows me in Cincinnati; 
where I was worse off than a book for bragging. God ! 
God ! a man's evil deeds follow him home. 

H. Buel. Hark you ! This man I know. He is as 
close as a bottle, but as prudent as a cat. I ne'er heard 
him say a word against any man ; nor look you for any 
man. Our secrets are as secret with him as ourselves. 
He is the very one I mentioned to you a time ago, that 
we were to depart with, French leave. If I had seen you 
sooner, I would have told you more. He has promised to 
take Conway and the company secure down the river. 

Sheriff. You will go with Jane. 

H. Buel. Nay, Jane will not go with me. 

Sheriff. The better for you, faith. 

H. Buel. I am not of that fashion, and take it to heart. 
Prudence has spoiled more that it has made. 

Sheriff. I tell you, Harry, this Lance is not a fellow of 
good repute. His name is enough to hang him ; and I 
have known it for any time. 

H. Buel. Tut ! tut ! now you are the ear of the world. 

Sheriff. That's better than to be its fool. (Exeunt.) 

ACT III. 

Scene I. — In the yard before Lee's house. 

Enter Js. Lee. 

Js. Lee. The breath of evening puts new life in me. 
'Tis like the air a rescuer might blow 
Into the watery lungs of drowned men. 
How do they stir and gasp and rise upright, 
Then fall back sleepily; I feel the same. 
The wind that seems to flutter through the trees 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 49 

With wings half spread and drop upon the limbs, 

Shakes wide its airy fragrance to my nose. 

My ears detect its motion. 'Tis a fact, 

A trace of cloud, a setting sun, a breeze 

Give velvet lining to a homespun thought. 

I'll ponder out his show descent. He goes 

Like hearty guest met with a hearty welcome, 

That says good-by, good-evening, all things good, 

And when they reach the turn, wave back their kerchief. 

So now his banner's foldedon the hill, 

Yet I think loth to go, so am I loth. 

I'll make consideration. How, what's this ! 

That hardly as I have begun my thought 

Comes breaking in. Oh ! it is always so ; 

Settled in privacy and anchored for a calm ; 

But scarce rode out a gale of care, when smack 

Down on our meditations, a storm 

Of harping voices, but withal they tune 

My ears to happy sounds. Hark ! 'tis my daughter ; 

And oh ! such stringed music sweetened heaven 

When the primeval dove, white sign of peace, 

Found footing o'er the waves. 

Enter Conway, Jane Dor and Julia Lee. 

Con. Did you bespeak us? 

Js. Lee. No. 

Con. Well, have mercy on the question, sir. 
'Twas natural for us, that coming this way 
A.nd hearing of your voice, which loudly beat 
The caverns of the woods, we followed it 
Up to your trumpet, and now we present 
All our contritions to you. 

Js. Lee. Contritions ! 

What's that to do with me? 

Con. Nothing, your honor, 

Unless you have the same as we do send 
In every way. You shall meet our contritions 
With no dull, sneaking parsimony, which, 
Like misers to a beggar does give nothing, 
But totters by ; nor will we be howled off 
With barking mouths and faces set to kill. 



50 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

But we have come, made up and penitent, 
As you do see us. If we are not met 
With penitence on your part, shame to you ; 
Ay ! double shame ; all the worst killing curses. 
You have killed equality, the basest murder 
That e'er shamed man. 

Js. Lee. Have you clone? 

Con. For a time. 

Js. Lee. Well that's comfort, if only for a time. 
Blessed be small comforts, that would turn our lives 
Good half of blessedness, if we did not 
Make them pay interest on our future trouble. 
Now I'll be happy, while I wait for you 
To bring in a spell of my woe. Let's see. 
The quaint birds are dropped off. If they did sing 
They would distract me. 'Tis on purpose granted 
That they should close with evening, and give us 
Pure sileuce, the best time for noble thoughts. 
For then we think upon ourselves ; and he 
Who looks into himself, will look around 
The sins of others. There he sees such spots 
As will set him to cleaning and leave people 
To find their blemishes. Nothing's so happy 
Like changing fault for fault with a dear friend, 
And showing up your sun and shadow to him 
In sweet confession. Now I am alone. 
Those silly fools that troubled me, that parrot 
That croaked such insolence ! All are gone, gone. 
How do my palms here resting on my temple 
Feel sweaty, but I have a tongue, a medicine, 
Purge to my mind ; for all that has collected 
During debate, while I have sat and smiled 
With inward grief, now flutters to my lips. 
Oh ! how unhappy, culpable in me, 
To let my daughter, all my pretty parts, 
Translated and made up, so full in her, 
Get stuck to this vile pitch ; but now 'tis done 
I fear 'twill rub her skin. He shall be taken, 
Daubed with some feathers — 

Jul. Lee. Father ! 

Js. Lee. What! you here? 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 51 

I thought you had departed ; but my tongue 
Was still ou you, so rarely do I see you, 
Since you grow amorous, that I fear, I fear — 
What can I fear? That you take love for father, 
And have no love for me. 

Jul. Lee. Oh ! father, no. 

Jane Dor. I do assure your honor, most pitifully 
She has of late moaned, pined, and taken on, 
That you were cold ; and laid it as a fault 
Against your natural dislike of her. 
But I did tell her that 'twas the cram of business, 
That stranger to affection, which did sour 
Attention to her. And not out of your thoughts, 
But from your time. 

Js. Lee. That's right. My thoughts are good. 

But I must stop, where I would go ahead 
With those dear fatherly caresses, which 
Call young girls home to the blessed fireside. 
In future, Julia, I promise to you 
Tender admixture, both of old advice 
And admonition; but if these be not 
Stirred and well mixed up with the yeast of love 
And sympathy, then call it not my fault, 
But o' the times. I'm not my own purveyor, 
But lent to others, so I cannot say 
My time's my own, or even my children mine. 

Jul. Lee. Nay, you may always call me yours, clear 
father, 
Even if you do not see me, since I loved 
And was beloved. I've not forgotten you 
And put you out of mind, but you still keep 
A father's love, graved even with young Conway. 
Now you rebuff us, but I see your eyes 
Look leniency. Oh ! what a tale is there, 
All of my happiness, or, indeed, yours. 

Js. Lee. No, not of mine, Julia. 

Jul. Lee. Oh ! why not? 

I'll be the same to you and do my duty 
As I were never wed. I would see you often, 
And caress and love you. 

Js. Lee. How fond, dear daughter. 



52 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Only the same to your vain seeming, which 
Like bridal veils hide to make dear the beauty 
And edge the young groom on. But not to me ; 
For, look you, daughter, love cannot be divided 
Without it break, and gives the whole to one 
And none to me. Alas ! Oh ! my sweet child, 
This is the worse to bear. 

Jul. Lee. I beg you, father — 

Js. Lee. Beg anything but lovers. 

Jul. Lee. I beseech you — 

Con. No, that's idle, unless you would leave me. 
He does turn me off, and by these circumspects 
Hints at my riddance. Well, shall it be so? 
O Julia ! this is the bitterest choice 
A tender girl can make. It stabs my heart 
To press you to't. 

Jul. Lee. I cannot speak. 

Con. I'll speak for you, my love. 

Js. Lee. No, no. 

Jane Dor. That's my part. Let me have a word. 
I'll play your attorney, dearest Julia, 
And we'll not meddle as to lawyers' fees. 
For honest men are ever on the flight 
Of passion as to right and property. 
But no true lawyer sues his brotherhood, 
Or no highwayman calls on learned judge, 
Seated in castle of the legal stool, 
To cut their booty for them. I advise, 
Sir judge, sir wisdom, sir Jack-in-the-box, 
That you give cordial judgment to my client, 
Or to my client's client, which's the same, 
Seeing they are one, or would be so. If you'll 
But stamp their action with formality, 
The seal of Heaven, you do Heaven's law, 
Which never did decree on parchment roll, 
Or faded letter of a printed page, 
By precedent, for there no precedent 
But good precedes, and good preceding on 
Still needs no precedent. This code, I say. 
Does not permit by breach of argument, 
Or any plea, that lovers like in years 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 53 

Should be thus madly disunited. 
I do appeal unto your honor's practice, 
And summon up the wide and whispering crowd 
To be my jurors. 

• Js. Lee. Nay, I am as conscious 

Without the call of jurors, as if seated 
Ou cause of death, and all the room around 
Hung on my lips. Why, even above justice 
I place my daughter's welfare, more tender to her; 
Because your justice is written down in scowls, 
Aud each parched wrinkle must be carried out, 
Spile of your sympathy ; but here my love 
Does batter down all right, and looking at you 
I must consider nature's frailty. 

In sooth, I do. What's more plain than you, poor girl, 
Having been barred outside the company 
And speech of proper men, should take this fellow 
For lack of better copy. There is my fault. 
I have the grace to own it, which does add 
More grace unto me. My fatherly duty 
Is a blessed thing, but I do abuse it 
By letting you know of this smoky rascal. 
Since you must love, I'll place your dear affections 
Upon aright, true man, ay, such a one 
As is a stem to yonder stump. 

Jul. Lee. Oh ! father, 

You are too critical. I tell you fair, 
111 wed no other. I would rather live a maid 
And be alone, sharpen in vinegar 
Of loneliness, and bite my bitter lips 
For want of kisses, than go to my bed 
With one I do not love. 

Con. Angels could say 

No more. 

Js. Lee. This is capering and unwise, 
My Julia. Oh ! how unsorted base 
Is beauty clipped of wisdom. How the mind 
Illuminates plain faces ! I tell you 
Thou hast to get thy wit ; for you have not 
The judgment of a man, nor yet the years 
To put you in the harness, if you had it. 



54 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Jane Dor. Nay, sir, there's naught in years. How 
many old, 
Decrepit packs of eighty do we see 
Get wives, that first unline their purse, then out, 
Like skinless rats, drive their lean carcasses. 
And wise fifty weds so fond, all men but he 
Have been before him. He lives on to sixty 
In ignorance, aud passes off at seventy, 
And leaves his faithful spouse a good round sum. 
Js. Lee. Very true, I could name — 
Jane Dor. As for wit we women 

Are well endowed, especially in love matters. 
So we do ponder in circles, wherefore called 
Circumspect, looking more into the nature 
Than round the seeming. 

Js. Lee. That were well advised, Jane. Julia, do you 
take time to peer into the nature of this man and not 
round the observation. That's it ; time, time. What's 
time but the peck of change. Time's a name, but change 
a thing positive. I hope then: will be a change. Take 
thy leave and ponder, think, meditate, and consider. And 
may you return to me changed. That's a pretty word. 

Jul. Lee. I will do as you say, but 'tis beyond me. 

Con. Good-evening, your honor. 

Js. Lee. Make haste. Thy mother is looking for you. 
{Exeunt Conway and Julia.) Now, Jane, I am rid of him. 
I had rather endure the pleading of ten new-fledged 
lawyers than one lovesick girl, I will bear it no more, 
but cut things short, as the Jew quoth of his yard-stick. 

Jane Dor. Oh ! you liar. Why did you give me word 
that you would mate these young people, then break them 
off? Now I did put them on the more. Now I lifted up 
those bubbles of hope, to be broken by your vile breath. 
You have deceived me, and broken all our hearts. 

Js. Lee. In simple, I have changed my mind, Jane. 

Jane Dor. And will you again? 

Js. Lee. On a chance, sweetheart. 

Jane Dor. And again? 

Js. Lee. Very like me. But please, my fair heifer, I 
have taken my station here so late, to cut oft' old Buel and 
his spouse. They cross the river before the ravens are 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 55 

fairly roosted, for no other reason than to see if one of 
their drove of hogs has not eaten the other. Indeed, the 
poor creatures could not get food any other way. But 
they are thrifty, Jane, thrifty. We will divide a bit of 
their soil between us. On ray soul we will. 

Jane Dor. I want none of their mud, nor the baser 
clay you are made of. 

Js. Lee. You need not be mad with me, when I would 
please you in all else beside. A ranting tongue in thy 
head is as good as no head at all. Then have a quiet one. 
This young Harry bears me the greatest love and rever- 
ence. If he come by money from his father, it will be 
mine and no question ; for I can turn him round my thumb 
like a ring. This is worth the toil, bonny mistress, spite 
of a peevish girl. Say, Jane, is it not? 

Jane Dor. If you have no conscience. 

Js. Lee. A little spark, Jane, which, on my soul, I 
never put powder to. Have you no years beyoud girlhood? 
Then have discretion beyond a minute. Our wedding 
shall be a continual courtship. You shall refuse me when 
you will, and take me when you desire. Ho ! 

(Enter Squire Buel, with Wife and Harry Buel.) 

Bless you, Harry. You are the type of a young man 
to tender your mother so caringly. If you are such a 
son-in-law as son, I am at the top of grace. 

H. Buel. Pray you I may, if it be so determined, 
father. 

Js. Lee. Determined? Squire Buel, is their marriage 
not already made up? The only question is, When shall 
it be sent to the parson? The quicker the better for the 
young people. They are lost in each other ; mad for the 
time. 

Sq. Buel. What will the dower be, judge? 

Js. Lee. A clean twenty-five thousand off-hand. As 
much for you will make a pretty start in life, if the 
promises of both hatch to my mind. I began with not so 
many coppers. 'Twas the same with you, like enough. 

Sq. Buel. Not a pinch of snuff to my name. 

Js. Lee. Those were rare times for rare men. There 
be no such industry now-a-day. No such ploughs, learn- 
ing and delving. 



56 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Mrs. Buel. No, no, your honor. 

Js. Lee. Faith, madam, your memory is younger than 
your years. Those who grow old as slow as you, may be 
ever said to be young. If my daughter take you to copy 
I shall be grateful to you and thankful to her, for you are 
the very stamp I would like to have her make. Then I 
have had no time and nature to educate her mornings and 
evenings. 

Mrs. Buel. No one can say but I have done my duty. 

Js. Lee. Oh! what a blessedness, madam. Now your 
duty is done, you shall but settle with Heaven. Then 
you are done for good, which is the shot of all our life; 
I never heard man or woman set a bad word on you, and 
that's more than I can say for myself, for every thief is 
against a judge and every cudgel on my head. 

H. Buel. That reminds me, your honor, I have a clue. 
We wind. We wind. The thief is one Thomas Mowhawk. 
We have got to that knot. 

Js. Lee. I will write a warrant, where'er he is. 

H. Buel. The devil knows, for the sheriff does not. 
He was a sailor by trade and a cooper b} r odd jobs. 
Presently he has gone to sea, for he has departed his 
bung-holes on the very night of your ransacking. He 
will turn pirate for a penny. 

Js. Lee. Never mind, Harry. He will be for some 
other justice; for there's a union of honesty the world 
over, but each thief is for himself. I want no revenge, 
only peace, which is the milk of life. But look about, or 
you may mistakehim. To have as many beards as a high- 
wayman is only to trick the sheriff. To light on a thief 
on the morn of his crime scares not his mates so much 
as ten years after. Therefore keep your eyes about. 
When I see you next, I hope I may be your father indeed. 
But we will go to the house and draw and certify papers, 
an' ir, please you, Squire Buel. 

(Exeunt Justice Lee, Squire Buel and Mrs Buel ) 

II. Buel. Has the old villain been teasing your virtue, 
Jane, here alone with you? Oh, if I could take your 
place, and light were night, he would have the warmest 
love of his life. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 57 

Jane Dor. Nay, you have served him once ; but when 
we are suugly wed, hint to him the trick you have played 
him, for he's a quick spirit, and it would worry his meals 
out of his mind. Then punishment is nothing if un- 
known. Like a mother whipping her children for what 
they know not, and kissing them for the rods. 

H. Buel. That would be a plague on him ; but has he 
not some true love for me? 

Jane Dor. As cheap as a penny. 

H. Buel. Methought he had, but such a knave. 

Jane Dor. A very band-box, made for a man, but full 
of all else. 

II. Buel. If I had him now under my wand, what a 
fairy I would be. 

Jane Dor. You are a lover Of the law; a proper 
deputy. 

H. Buel. Faith, I love the law for sport, and the 
sheriff for gains. But I get the most out of it, for I pay 
nothing for my sport and he pays dear for his profit. 
We watched all night for a sheep thief, who was none 
but his brother Tim, when caught. But his brother 
would -not know him for fear. He was whiter than a 
fleece, and trembled like a lamb. God, quoth the sheriff, 
for mind you he never swears by Christ, for that's a 
lady's oath. Ay, God, said he. 

Jane Dor. But he lacks both in his prayer. That's 
where all men treat the Trinity alike. 

H. Buel. But he has a face of grace on him when the 
sessions come round. He will outlook a dozen church- 
men. Then his hand is against every man. 

Jane Dor. Ay, but how did you manage him? 

H. Buel. For me, I nigh died keeping my mirth in. 
The sheriff was taken aback with ingratitude. Quoth he, 
You are no brother to keep me up six out of seven for a 
mangy sheep. I had rather nurse the pest-house than this, 
Tim. But he was that generous he would take no more 
than the head. If Tim had stood out for giving the tail 
only, the sheriff would have been satisfied. What a soup ! 
But if he could get one every night, 'twovikl not be so 
bad. 

Jane Dor. Oh, you are a mad-cap. The only good 



58 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

you will ever do will to cure some lunatic. You would 
make him straight. No wonder Conway and Lee should 
rake off in this mad manner, being under your tutorship. 
These be light young men. There will be no end of 
trouble for all of us. 

H Buel. I tell you, Jane, if I had my way, we would 
be with them to-night. 

Jane Dor. Then you would have wished to have 
bragged and stay at home. 

H. Buel. God save me; I am no such lover. 

Jane Dor. Well, what are you? 

H. Buel. No dancing fellow ; no one to talk and walk 
a year with a woman before I know her or my own mind. 
But my heart and eyes played all at once, when they fell 
on you. Now you are against the pleading of both. I 
would wed you this hour, if you would so, and who will 
not wed in a minute is no mau, but a peeping ninny. 

Jane Dor. Wed in a worry, they say, worry all your 
life. We will wait till this is blown over, till your 
father — 

II. Buel. My father! My old box; that is what a 
father becomes. 

Jane Dor. I could ask no better, seeing you have the 
keys to him. 

H. Buel. Not I, nor no other man. Nothing but time 
can ope him, and that will break him. Why do fathers 
keep every copper from their sons, so their sons will 
wish them dead? 

Jane Dor. What! have you that hardness? Oh! you 
will make a simple husband. 

H. Buel. No, I would sob and take on to myself, if he 
were to die; but, God save me, I could not hinder being 
the lighter in heart. 

Jane Dor. God condemn you if you would. 

H. Buel. That needs be ; that needs be ! What sweet 
talk for a lover. I should think you were my coffin come 
to bury me all in white. 

Jane Dor. For good it would be white. You are but 
a child, Harry. (Exeunt.) 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 59 

Scene II. — A path. 

(Enter Lance; M. Lee, Conway and Julia in distance.) 

Lance. Who comes? 

M. Lee. Was that a voice did say who comes? 

Lance. A troubled voice. I say again, who comes? 

Con. Friends of the night, to meet you here to-night ; 
I'll give the word to light our countenance. 
Do you not know us? 

Lance. I now discern 

Your figures on the moon and see your cloak 
Fly backward from the buffet of the wind. 
This gale runs with a pointed, seaward wing; 
'Twill see the Atlantic e'er the peep of morn. 

Jul. Lee. I wish the earth sustained such messengers, 
To carry awkward mortals on their way 
From what's detestable. 

Con. The same express, 

My love, that hastens flight, nimbles pursuit. 
'Tis not a mile, or rod, or any measure 
That nods to safety, but a righteous cause, 
The shortest road, and wit's the longest way 
Between us and our enemies. 

Lance. You have 

A double proof of safety, and if I 
Boast not, in me a third. It must go hard 
If three cannot outwit your father, who 
Thinks now I am doused in his muddy plans 
To bring about a marriage between you 
And Harry Buel. Ah, how few are friends ! 
But why should he who plays the game deceit, 
Expect me to be fair? Come ! let's to the boat. 

Jul. Lee. Is there a fire? 

Lance. I smell the smoke oft. 
So they have lighted one. I was so busy 
Waiting here, wrapped in my cloak of care, 
It passed me quite. 

Jul. Lee. The night is chilly. 

Lance. Ay, 

The air is foul in April, but on board 
There's comfort in a corner. You can prove it 
Where'er the butcher wind strips earth of skin. 



60 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Con. Yes; come on, Lance, show ns the way. 

Lance. Ahead. 

The road leads down, and no mistaking it. 
I'll stay behind, for it may be some spy, 
Or much more likely a chanced wayfarer, 
Has seen you pass. Look, how behind you black, 
In truth a coffin, so deep and dark. 

M Lee. No matter,. 

No one's behind, I'm confident. 

Lance. Not I. 

Even without intent some one may be there ; 
Misguided to the town, or some late hunter 
Lags to reach his home e'er morning. 

M. Lee. What's the good, 

If you should find him? 

Lance. I would make excuse, 

Or if he questioned who you were, say to him, 
'Tis some young folks gone on a merry time, 
Or frolic under way. 

M. Lee. Oh ! what a frolic 

To match the night. I would indoor 
Rather than catering to the air; but go, 
We'll find the way, since 'tis so short. 

Lance. Right on, 

You cannot miss it. It were best to walk 
Abreast, for yon high-steepled cloud has cut 
Moonlight away from us. 

Con. Well, be soon back. 

Lance. A minute, till I scout all around. {Exeunt all 
but Lance.) 

Ay, gone, 
And the last time you go. At least I think 
They cannot miss the water. The boat lies 
Off from the bank, and there's a yawning hole 
Under their feet. Oh, hell ! may they fall in. 
Then is my plot complete, for just as sure 
As the old niggard finds his money gone, 
He'll yell the law on me. But if the current 
Does drive and batter them together, as 
It must, they are gone; all evidence washed out. 
Which will sponge me. 'Tis easily said 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 61 

They had his wealth with them, and being lost, 
As fast my boatman sleep and will not wake 
To hear their cries. Hark ! hark ! 'tis almost time. 
Not yet, not yet! Well, this is strange indeed. 
I wonder if the wind does chill my hearing 
And drive across the sound. No, 'tis not that. 
I think it blows from them, but 'tis hard telling 
Here in the swaying pines, whose tops do rock 
Like little infants. H-jre I will stand stiff 
To catch the jar of their dull, drowning voices. 
What raps at my ears? Help! help! Oh! you are wel- 
come. 
There 'tis again. Ah, friends, sweet friends, come in 
Unto my portals ! You are the jolliest callers ; 
But I'll go forward and be unconcerned. {Exit.) 

Scene III. The river bank. 

M. Lee. A light! a light! 

Enter Stewart, Grim and Allen. 

Grim. Here is a light,. 

M. Lee. Bring here. 

Grim. What's the matter? 

M. Lee. A man is drow r ned ! A light ! 

Grim. Here 'tis, I tell you. 

M. Lee. No, you have none there. 

The wiud has blown it out. 

Grim. Ay, so it has. 

I'll touch it quick. Now what's wanted of me? 

Jul. Lee. Look ! look ! how he is stretched upon the 
mud 
And strangles for the air ! Leap over hither. 
Your oil burns dim. What! can you speak? 

Con. - Where am I? 

Oh ! now I do perceive. I thought I died, 
Or something bordering death, and you, my love, 
Did take me from it, so it seemed to me ; 
But I suppose 'twas Martin. 

Jul. Lee. Ay, 'twas he. 

He caught you providently, but if I 
Had the position, power or strength, my love, 
Even without them, I had done the same. 



62 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Enter Lance. 

Lance. Ho ! what is this? 

Con. Wet. 

Lance. Has there been a rain? 

I did not notice it, where I was stationed, 
Beneath the tented pines. But squalls Mill fly, 
Pent in the kettle of a small, black cloud, 
And cover only rods ; this was the case and true. 
Each storm must have an end, so the dry edge 
Did fall between us. 

Con. Nay, Lance, have you no eyes? 

I slipped from yon hollow bank, whose treachery 
Was covered by the turf, and came near drowning. 
In sooth I should, had Martin not been light, 
And reached my arms, as I did fling them up 
To grasp the clouds. Oh ! they came down unto me, 
Like good and stable props. 

Lance. Thank Heaven for't. 

The boat has slipped her cable. That's a trick 
She has often played with the current. Ho ! 
Grim and Allen ! Have you not seen it before? 

Grim. No. 

Lance. Nor you, Stewart? 

Stewart. Nay. 

Lance. Nor you? 

Allen. No, sir. 

Lance. Well, it has happed to me. Once as I came, 
Troubled in some matter that did bow my head 
To the ground for an answer, I stepped o'er, 
But caught the hawser. Your best fortune favored 
To have a good friend by. Therightest-keeled man 
Could not throw arm and swim in such a narrow. ' 

Con. No, I did not try. The water cut through my 
flesh, 
Being so cold and at spring flood. If you 
Had not reached me, this were my last sad eve. 
I do know it, and think the consequence. 

M. Lee. No more. 

Lance. Thanks are not asked wdiere most deserved. 

Con. Then I'll not pest you with them, brother, no. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 63 

But you have done the richest deed on earth, 
Which makes man more than angel, if there be 
Such perfect spirits as do wander here. 

Lance. Come, that's enough. You shiver. 

Jul. Lee. To the fire, 

And strip off your cold clothes. 

Con. I will. 

Lance. Ay, how the poor lamb trembles. Get to bed. 
The bitter and continual east could blow 
No harder on the backs of unshorn sheep 
Than this on you. 

Con. Where to, captain? 

Lance. Below, 

Down to the cabin. I stay here awhile 
To see things safe and proper. 

{Exeunt Conway, Martin Lee and Julia Lee.) 

What's the time? 

Grim. Eleven, sir. 

Lance. Hours yet. Have you ambition? 

Grim. Ay, at all hours. 

Lance. That's encouraging. 

If I behold a thorny minded man, 
'Pricked to ambition, I will take him up, 
Encourage him, and pass promotion to him ; 
For he has the hatch in him which some day 
Bears off a gallant brood. Dost hear? 

Stewart. All, all ! 

Grim. Are there more in the coop? 

Lance. More what? 

Grim. Advices. 

Lance. Short, Grim. What's your ambition? 

Grim. To be honest. 

Lance. A most uncommon, but as your whole aim 
Has chose so fair a mark, let us consider 
How you may hit it. 

Grim. I have no objection. 

Lance. Honesty, then, is first of all that quality 
That plumbs our dealings, so 'tis said, 
And better understood ; if you be honest 
Your promises are sealed, and others' dues 



64 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Respected as your own. This makes a man 

In estimation of the giddy world. 

All who behold you feathered to the tips 

In business honesty, think by conclusion 

That outward graces shadow the inward soul, 

And here misled, misjudge the internal iron, 

Which in most men is lapping dross. Mark you, 

That you bide none; like ragged parsimony, 

Or the dull pluck, which lets vile bullies strike 

Either the moral or the bodily man. 

For as the last, there be such cunning steel 

That makes the bulk and sinews count for naught. 

And if main courage guides a gentle hand, 

All's down before him but the greatest coward, 

Thy tongue. Watch as it were a poison set 

Against thy courage and thy manly part, 

And hold thy stiff opinions who may laugh ; 

For look you, if you fall into the trap 

Of currying all men, they will hold you cheap. 

Rather by few T and scanty want of words 

Exalt their price, than battering 'gainst the sea 

And froth of argument be tost and cockled. 

But when you speak, with moderation trimmed 

Be for a time mild and inurgent, so 

To smooth their self-esteem. If they persist, — 

And fools are stubborn, — either hold thy mouth 

Or decant short and sharp. The last, I mark, 

Has no effect upon these aimless pipes, 

But bears you off well with the lookers-on. 

You will convince a dozen, where you think 

Your wit wasted on one. 

Stewart. That's very true, 

Indeed my own opinion. 

Lance. Ay, Stewart, 

'Tis common as the sun. 

Grim. In cloudy weather. 

Stewart. Nay, much more common. 

Lance. So it is, 

Because the weakness of mankind is seen 
Both 'neath the light of day and watch of night. 
But come, what's your ambition? 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. $5 

Stewart. My ambition? 

Lance. Your inward longings ekecl out with your 
talents. 

Stewart. Why, to be rich ! 

Allen. And I the same desire. 

Lance. Yes. 

Grim. And are like to have it. 

Lance. Why, I know not, 

Though poverty, like dogs, comes to the poor; 
But sure that in your present tracks you have 
Bat meagre opportunity. Yet mind, 
There be such bruited ways that lead to wealth, 
Which will not bear the utterance. I do know 
Things that would put you on the stair of fortune, 
Ready to mount, and wealth within your grasp ; 
Than which what is more pleasant? 

Grim. Nothing, sure. 

Lance. True, true, for want of it does bind the mind 
Down with the body, walking a high soul 
On flat and muddy sills. But if you have it, 
Your soul's your own, though parsons tell you different, 
And power stands within you, which is the star 
Whereat men fly, like meteors at the earth. 
Have you a pang for being stones for those 
Above to walk on? 

Grim. God, God, I have, scores. 

Lance. So have we all. Each underling must bow, 
Appear obedient for his belly's sake, 
And be no better than a slave, though he 
Is fire within. I tell you there's a way 
That you may make yourselves masters, at least 
Of your own dignity. Wealth will buy that, 
The greatest boon, though I could dance your fancy 
With baser prospects, but that I do know 
You hold this capital and to be considered. 

Allen. Ay, sir, what more? 

Lance. Nothing to-night. 

Grim. I thought 

You would deliver us a secret. 

Allen. Yes, 

You spoke portentiously. 
Lance. Another time. 



66 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Meanwhile spur your imagination, which 
I fear is growing jaded. 

Enter Meg. 

What now? What now? 
Meg. Please, they want you below. 
Lance. Me? 

Meg. So they said. 

Lance. Well, I'll come shortly. 

Exit Meg. 

We will start this morning. 

Keep your ears open, and at a future hour 

I'll pour in them a project; but be quiet 

In presence of these three, for they are sharp, 

Keen-witted fellows ; so meet them with an edge 

Of calm indifference whet on your faces ; 

Neither condole with them nor be too much 

Whispering and chattering, and for the future 

I will make it plain. 

Grim. Yes, be our lamp. 

Lance. I will. 

Allen. We will all run in your light. (Exeunt omnes.) 

ACT IV. 

•Scene I. — In Lee's house. 

Enter Justice Lee. 

Js. Lee. All the world's against me. Here is my box 
washed dry and my moneys flooded away. If it were 
not that knave Lance, then I know nothing about him. 
In the past he has done fairly by me, but monstrously by 
my enemies, that is my creditors. I thought he would 
be true to me, because I held his mandamus over him. 
But this have I learned : to trust no more villains for the 
sake of their darkness. A good, silly clerk pays best in 
the long run; though he lose you pennies by stupidity, he 
ne'er robs you of a hoard; for dullness is but a penny 
failing. The next time that I want a skipper and 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 67 

supercargo and what not, I will take a short, broad man 
with such a flame of honesty on his chin as would do to 
light his pipe. No lean, black -headed fellow, rusted 
with grey, but honest colors. Truth, I know a shore-man 
that would fit me on every rib. He is red to the corners 
of his eyes, and they are taking it on for looking at his 
whiskers so long. I will set him in Lance's place when 
I have hanged Lance, and if he make any talk of my 
concerns on gallows, I will nod to the sheriff to drop him 
off before the witnesses come. But who's late at a hang- 
ing. That will please the spectators, for dispatch is 
business. But about this little money. Tis no great 
matter, the subject for a tear and the remedy of a hand- 
kerchief. When I have the next occasion to cry over a 
sore finger, I will put in a drop for this. 

Enter Sheriff and Harry Buel. 

Well arrived, handcuffs. Can you two never part? 
A prettier twain ne'er scared women or took outlaws. 

Sheriff. For women, your honor, we have naught to 
do with them. 

Js. Lee. And for the outlaws you have naught to do 
also. That is too, too cruel to the women ; for look you, 
they are not to be laid aside as regards man, but must be 
looked into, looked after, and looked around. If you 
peer not into them, you will not know what they con- 
tain. If you examine not after them, they will lead you 
a bad way, and if you turn them not round, you will see 
but one side of them. 

H. Buel. I would care to see no more than the good 
side. 

Js. Lee. Never think, Harry, to find that by a look. 
They fold their virtue in for a rest to their own con- 
science, so you will see nothing but the rough of their 
good wishes, whereas we men, for the sake of opinion, 
lay open our fur to our friends, and rest uneasy on a 
shorn skin. 

H. Buel. Then, your honor — 

Js Lee. No, Harry, father by all means. This is 
fatherly advice. 

H. Buel. As you like it, father. Then man has no 



68 COMFOET IN A CORNER. 

comfort, for every man makes himself uncomfortable 
and every woman all beside. That is, man has two 
against him ; himself and his wife. 

Js. Lee. But he has only one for him, and she's his 
wife. Take that to your bosom, my son, and think that 
the virtues of hell are all on the surface, but of women 
all inward, which proves her as near heaven as able. 

Sheriff. That's a mouthful, your honor. 

Js. Lee. Consider it. Hath it not sense? 

Sheriff. Why, a poor kind of sense, damned forever 
by the truth oft. 

H Buel. Tut, I thought heaven was jeweled on the 
outside, and women are for that matter. That should 
mean that women and heaven have a fair face, as well as 
a warm heart. 

Js. Lee. Jewels are hateful to my soul, Harry. The 
best jewel is an open countenance. A heaven of gems is 
no heaven of Christians. There is a race who can 
tinker heaven out of a soldsmithy. I'm none of them. 
Solomon hath it to get wisdom, and uses his wisdom, 
for all I see, to get naught but wealth. His treasures 
travelled farther than his wit. Then they were more 
accounted, I take it, for our greatest parts go broadcast 
over our little. 

H. Buel. I have heard different. 

Js. Lee. No, no. That's beyond doubt. Has some 
one been telling evil stories of you, son? Ne'er mind 
them. They are clouds, and die with the first wind. 
Your graces will live longest. 

H. Buel. I will doubt it not, if you say it. Oh ! spar- 
ing the question, what was the matter, that you called us 
so hasty? 

Js. Lee. Misfortune has me of late. But a trifle with 
all. It has been my custom to keep sums throwing 
about here and there. Ne'er in proof boxes, which are 
the address to thieves, but in a book on the stand, or the 
like. Now have I lost my pains for mv wit. 

Sheriff. Ha ! 

Js. Lee. Oh ! I beg you not to laugh, not so loud. 

Sheriff. I was whetting my appetite for the case. 

Js. Lee. 'Tis nothing more than this is gone. There 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 69 

it was yesterday. There it is not to-day; and that's the 
odds to me betwixt to-day and yesterday. 

H. Buel. Is the deficiency any great, and bankrupt? 

Js. Lee. An iota; but more than passing. Say thirty 
thousand. 

Sheriff. Ha ! 

Js Lee. You are the jolliest man, Mr. Sheriff. How 
can a hangman get so much laughter out of his trade? 

Sheriff. Not so hard for me as for an eye hangman, 
the witnesses. They must watch the inhumanity, but 
we the tackle only. We are naught but machines of 
death. 

Js. Lee. And to come to't. 

Sheriff. Ay, who's the suspect of this? Who has 
taken it? 

Js. Lee. And how shall I retake it? That's the pain 
that has the charm for me. 

Sheriff. Like a dung-heap, your honor, dirty but thrifty. 
Leave the handle to Harry and me. We are bloodhounds 
on the bark. Have you no clue? 

Js. Lee. Dost know one Captain Lance? 

Sheriff. Truly, truly, by his deeds. 

Js. Lee. And no good ones. 

H. Buel. Why! nothing cruel, father-in-law. 

Js. Lee. Then you know him "not. He's one of those 
monsters that lose nothing by capture, like other fry. 

H. Buel. He was employed of you, and I thought that 
was a bill to his honor. I ne'er looked more than at the 
face. 

Js. Lee. That's the part not worth a wink. If you had 
eyed him below, you would see how his velvet is laid over 
iron. They say that he has murdered men and robbed 
their corpses. Sure he is a spendthrift and not above 
providence. There is enough proof without evidence to 
hang him again and again. 

H. Buel. Has he been charged? 

Js. Lee. No. A citizen must either swallow his words 
or the captain's lead. I would laugh; no I would weep 
for the man that tried a prosecution. 

H. Buel. Is he so tough? I suspect he has some 
apology of a friend that sets these things afloat. What 



70 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

one will cast in the streets a dozen will grab. Tattlers 
outdo their spite. That's the fashion. 

Sheriff. Did I not tell you? 

H. Buel. What? 

Sheriff. Why ! that this Lance was a villain. 

H. Buel. And one of your friends at that. 

Sheriff. His friend as I am the friend of every sinner. 
I am no unfeeling club, Harry. There's not a man I lodge 
in the pound but I wish he could sleep in his own bed. 

Js. Lee. Now, Harry, you are beaten by double witness, 
and we are only the two ends of a long line of them. He 
has my money, so he must be had. To-night he sleeps 
on board. But I warn you go cocked, for he's a man of 
few words; the very shortest-spoken man I know of. 

Sheriff. I will fetch him by a ruse. 

Js. Lee. Ay, as you were his own mother. 

Eiter Lance. 

Not voyaged yet, captain? I thought by this time you 
would be gone for good. 

Lance. So I would, but I struck a loss in the fuel, and 
needs stay an hour. If you had forgot anything, I call 
to make it right. Why, friends, is it good luck I should 
meet you here to say good-by, and mate business with 
good feeling? 

Sheriff. Faith the best. This clear weather makes a 
fine start. 

Lance. Well enough overhead, but under planks we 
are mouldy. The damp has crept in during the w T et of 
lading, and the pack was none too dry of itself. 'Tis a 
good plan to keep fires for a time, your honor. 

Js. Lee. Very pretty, Lance. I know of nothing 
more I can point out, unless get small-bellied men. 
These fellows are eating up my living; get smaller men. 

Lance. I will, but send me no more of those long, 
lean men. They are as full of surprises as hornets' 
nests. 

Js. Lee. What do you most fashion? 

Lance. Middling men, your honor. 

Js Lee. As you say again. 

Lomce. Good-morrow, gentlemen. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 71 

H. Buel. And the day after as well, Laace. 

Lance. How happy strange for me to meet so many 
sweet friends all in a walk of business. As I came up I 
saw Julia, Conway, and your son in the town ; a step 
further I bade Morresey adieu. Now at the last minute 
I plump down in the middle of more friends. 

Js. Lee. My daughter? 

Lance. There was no mistaking such rare beauty. 

Js. Lee. And Conway? 

Lance. Your fine-savored son-in-law? Yes, I would 
have seen more of him, but that his back was forward. 

Js. Lee. Ay, my dear Conway and my son in com- 
pany? 

Lance. In, — that were not it quite. More to one fide 
of their company. 

Js. Lee. Well, how did they seem? 

Lance. Like the fresh bride and groom they are. , 
There is nothing better, as I know, to look at. My 
single life has no charm after a wink at them. I never 
heard sung of two doves that seemed so happy as they. 
Oh ! an unwedded life is a bare mouthful. 

Sheriff. I ne'er made but one good trade, and that 
when the census got in my debt. 

Js. Lee. Profit comes by debt and never by credit. 
That is, you may profit on the credit of others and your 
own debts. 

Lance. Then your new heir will have more than 
experience to profit by. A fine young man, now you 
have consented to the wedding. How long will the 
honeymoon be? 

Js. Lee. Forever. 

Lance. That will be good for them. 

Js. Lee. And for me. Had they ta'en the car for 
Cincinnati? 

Lance. Twas in that direction. 

Js. Lee. Pittsburg, and after New York, then the deep 
sea. I hope they will keep on. 

Lance. Will they so far and see Europe? 
Js. Lee. No. 

Lance. A custom, your honor. One would think our 
brides had wed Europe more than their husbands. 
Good-morning. (Exit.) 



72 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Sheriff. Shall I nab him? 

Js. Lee. Nay, I am heart-broken. Have you gone 
blind? Why do you sit there like people who cannot 
speak the language? Tis plain, 'tis very plain. Conway 
has gone, so has my account. There is an inference; but 
mind you, say nothing of this outside your office. My 
daughter's name is my own, for children partake of 
their father. I tell you, your best coin is silence. 

Sheriff. I have a mint of that stuff. Might I look for 
your help at the next poll? 

Js. Lee. The county will stand by you without my help. 
Every thief will ballot for you, and that's enough to 
elect any man in this state of the world. I will reward 
you rounder. But Harry, poor Harry ! 

H. Buel. I am a vile coward to sit here. I will 
murder him, and the law will stand by me. 

Js. Lee. Calm, Harry; you will not win a woman's 
love by killing her lover. Now they are wecl, there's no 
undoing it. The question is, how to get over this with- 
out a smutty gossip. This pulls me down. Is it not 
enough that I must lose her, but you as well? That were 
the saddest. 

H. Buel. Nay, I am your son yet. All I look for is 
advice, which does not natter the fairer lookout I had 
of you. 

Js. Lee. That's not my fault. If my ways had pleased 
hers, you would have been one and all before this time; 
but I can give you no promises. They are clean spoiled 
by this Conway. Oh ! gratitude is a born knave, and you 
cannot teach it out of him. I have tended him like a 
father, and he* has robbed me for my love. But alas ! 
my son is no better; the worst of the two; because I 
would not humor him in business trifles, he has left me 
without a sigh. To be sure he was hard-hearted, a very 
stone to my poor debtors. He would ne'er pay my good 
nature a mark, but keep to his hard ways. But that's 
not all he has gone for ; I think to part shield his sister's 
name. He has a spark of a man in him, a drop of his 
father. 

Sheriff. I never knew a more genial young man. 

Js. Lee. He had great virtues, but harsh. That was 
not got from me. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 73 

Sheriff. I ne'er heard him called dishonest, only suug 
in his dealings, which after all was only the whine of 
poverty. 

H. Buel. He was a most good-tempered fellow with 
me. 

Js. Lee. With you, ay; but you were not his debtor. 
Oh, he was a January sun to a debtor, as blue as the 
north wind ; but spare in his diet, and I think virtuous ; 
at least he had no bitches about him. They would earn 
no more than night wages out of him, he was that close. 

Sheriff. What's to be done? 

Js. Lee. Nothing. Tney shall undo what they have 
done. A tired dog hates his own kennel, but finds it 
better than none. They shall come back, and I will not 
whistle for them. 

Sheriff. Not for them, but how for your money? 

Js. Lee. It can go to the dogs. If your own cur steal 
your own bacon, it is not a dead loss, only costly feed- 
ing. The sorriest dog is your neighbor's. 

Sheriff. Then my duty is ended. 

H. Buel. And I have none to end, only my heart to 
break. 

Js. Lee. The duty to yourself, to your parents, and to 
me, Harry. Get another love ; that is the only way 
to wipe out a lost one. 

H. Buel. But my memory, my memory ! 

Js. Lee. There is no argument for this. Get another 
love, Harry. 

H. Buel. Oh! the disgrace. 

Js. Lee. A disgrace unknown is as good as honor. 
Say that their marriage was managed beforehand, and 
you knew all about it. 

Sheriff. I will freight it to my spouse ; then the world 
shall hear. (Exeunt omnes.) 

Scene II. — On the Ohio. 

Enter Lance and his Boatmen. 

Lance. Now 'tis full day, but we can plot the same 
As in the listening night. Indeed 'tis better, 
Since they have no suspicion, but let stray 



74 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Their flock of senses. Do not come too close, 
And seem to lay your heads together : if 
They hear our voices, they will not attend 
More than unto the wayward, wandering wind. 
Are your minds complete? 

Grim. We are made up to't. 

Lance. Then all is settled, and I only have 
To appoint the time and moment of the deed. 
Crime grows by thinking, so I do tell you 
Go about your natural works and think 
Only of pleasures that will come to you 
In this pursuit. 

Allen. Of drink? 

Lance. Of anything. 

Stewart. Shall it be on the boat? 

Lance. No ; I'm determined 

To wait until we make the cave of thieves, 
Which is four days ahead. There in the pit 
Beneath the fair skin of the earth, no one 
Can aught disturb us. Meanwhile look serene, 
Like you were dallying with a cherub thought. 
Be prompt, and set your eyes very politely 
When they walk by. 

Grim. We will all that. 

Lance. Then well. 

I ask no more. I am the match of them 
All three, so you will but stand by and rake 
The booty while I get the scars for it. 

Grim. I have a dread we will be caught. 

Lance. No, no; 

Lay aside your dread. Did I not say their father 
Suspected them the theft, and thought them gone 
Out of his way? For their good conscience sake 
And his own reputation he'll provide 
A wall of silence, mark. 

Allen. I have it down. 

Go on. 

Lance. There's an end, at least with me. 
Now resolution on your souls. With you 
The outcome lies, and most upon your tongue 
Keep utterance of these things. Be not in drink 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 75 

Until your memory, by a space between, 
Has rubbed all thoughts away, and when you cease 
To think of their late murder, then drink, drink, 
As hardened sinners should. 

Grim. That comes by nature, captain. 

Lance. The gifts of nature are our soldiers, which 
Bat hard for us and hard to throw. Then look, 
They cannot be o'ercome like education, 
But muster to our battles, or with drink 
To our destruction ; for if you drink once 
You drink again ; if twice, then thrice. So on, 
Till the unruly membrage of your tongue 
Gets the best of your sense. You are at mercy 
Of madness in yourself. 

Grim. Do not reprove us 

For what we have not done. Is't not enough 
To answer for our failings? 

Lance. I wrong you. You are trusty. 

Grim. As your hand. 

Lance. But that does tremble. I need some rest and 
sleep. 
Below the air is murk and foul and hot, — 
Unnatural. I could not sleep in it, 
But in this breezy river I'll lie down, 
And do you rouse me if I wake not up 
Ere afternoon. 

Stewart. We will. 

Lance. Ho ! I forget. 

Dost know that? (Holds up a vial.) 

Allen. No. 

Janice. A remedy of the best. (Takes it and sleeps.) 

Grim. I think he sleeps. 

Allen. Not like his victims sleep. 

Grim. He soon shall be with them if I do live. 
Look at the blankets of his murderous eyes ; 
I'll watch the river's eye, more deadly eye, 
And thread it safe. Look close. 

Allen. He sleeps for good ; 

No counterfeit of it, and but returns 
Unto the early hours of the morning 
What he did rob out of her midst. Sleep on ; 
We plot in comfort ere 'tis time to bed. 



76 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Stewart. I wonder if he dreams of murder. He — 

Allen. If dreams are blotters of the day, no more, 
And only prophets, I would prophesy 
That murder is the great part of his rest. 

Grim. Ay, he must die. 

Allen. So must we all. 

Grim. I mean 

We'll kill him. 

Allen. Yes. Who shall it be? 

Stewart. Not I. 

Grim. Here comes one of the twain, and short I'll warn 
him. 

Enter Martin Lee. 

Friend, sleep you in arms? 

M. Lee. No, but Conway does. 

Grim. I say do you sleep on your arms? 

M. Lee. Why yes, 

When they are 'neath my head. 

Grim. You have 

No head to speak of, if you laugh at that 
Which I will tell you. Levity's a trick 
Of fools and cloak of cowards. 

M. Lee. That's my mind 

If there's anything to be serious over. 

Grim. Oh, there is; something that concerns your- 
self, 
So twice your own. Look, how do we all seem 
Like people with a joke wrapped in their face? 
Are we not grimmy? Our faces more black 
Thau care could make them, or the calking tar? 
I tell you all the fashions of the countenance 
Are set in black and white. If you have knowledge 
To read a primer, you can spell us out. 

M. Lee. Well, to it, man. 

Grim. No; are you satisfied? 

M. Lee. Of what? 

Grim. That we have no distrust, but speak 

Most plainly. 

M. Lee. Yes ; whate'er it is, but short. 
Why do you hang suspense? 

Grim. There lies a man, 



COMFORT IN A CORNER, 77 

Or heaven's apology, honest to look at, 
But all deep sin within. 

M. Lee. What, Lance? Not Lance! 

Grim. It makes no difference what you do name him, 
Although he bears a false one. The point is, 
There's the man. 

M. Lee. Oh come ! less round about 
And fashionable. You beat around like one 
Who has a honey secret to con o'er, 
Aud lingers sweetness out. None of these stairs 
To climb my understanding. But leap down 
Right fair upon it. I can stand the secret. 

Grim. Well, fairly told, he'll murder you. 

Allen. Yes, murder. 

M. Lee. Oh! what play can this be? 

Grim. One near the acting. 

So near your fingers cannot stop the days 
Upon a single hand. 

M. Lee. You deceive not, 

But you have been deceived. Saints have been slandered 
In holy writ, and neither been the wrong one. 
There's a mistake. Say what is your suspicion 
That he should murder me. Say quick ! Oh, say ! 

Grim. It is not long. 

M. Lee. No tale is short to fear, 

Or long to love. Come on ! 

Grim. This murderer 

Has got possession of your father's money 
By a means he has not told us, but he comes 
Laded with it, and offers to divide 
In case we put you out of the way some night, 
And cover up our crime. Then to this end 
He whispers to your father that you are gone, 
Aud if you ne'er come back, — thus, thus to us 
With license of his giddy, lying tongue, 
Your father, though he hold him in suspicion 
Like as the black northwest, will yet have a doubt 
Of your fair honesty. Then to the east 
And clear direction of your innocence, 
This cloud does steer. And he has made it plain 
By us, suborning you shall not return. 



/O COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Oh! you are vapors and fogs of the morning 
To such a villain, and he will murder you. 
Oh ! the world is a peck, and shaking brings 
Great monsters to the top. 

M. Lee. When did he speak to you? 

This sadness breaks my heart, which was before 
Lighter than for a month. 

Allen. This very minute, 

As vou walked hither. 

M. Lee. So short? 

Allen. Ay, we consented 

To kill you the fourth day from now, because 
If we balked he would strip us dirty rags, 
As he has done before, and none the wiser. 

Grim. Even as 'tis, we stand but little chance 
After your taking off. Our life no rest; 
Bat dread that he will knife us, or with drugs 
Put us to sleep forever. Instruments 
Of murderers are next to wipe. 

M. Lee. No more. 

I cannot doubt you, for looking behind 
Everything runs to his guilt. He's here, 
And justice long delayed is better done 
Than not at all. Quick ! wake him up and give 
Time for confession, then upon this beam 
Make way with him. 

Grim. Think he will hang? 

M. Lee. Why yes, 

If we have power. There are four to one, 
And he's not strong. What danger is there from him? 
I think the sudden prospect will unnerve him, 
Aud dance his resolution up to Heaven. 
There lost with Gocl, while if 'twould combat man, 
Nothing could make it even. I have it : 
Unarmed he is unnerved, and his poor pluck 
Lost with his steel. We will step softly forward 
And turn his weapons on him. 

Grim. Now he wakes. 

Allen. Oh, yes! his drowse is short. Those sleep the 
roughest 
Who rest on evil deeds. A plank, a hide 
Is soft to goodness. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 79 

M. Lee. Now's the time. 

Allen. Wait, wait. 

His bloody and instinctive hand even grabs 
Into his pockets. Some of us shall suffer 
Before he dies. Some men play with their charms, 
Some with their pencils, but his constant Augers 
-Are laid on implements of death. There's time 
To take him in the light of his own conscience 
And end him in the heat of blood ; but now 
I cannot hang him. Oh ! to see him strangle 
And cough and shiver in the icy loop 
Would half kill me. 

Stewart. No, no, not now. 

Allen. His fingers 

Are picking at his cloak. He'll rise up soon. 

Grim. Mind, say nothing to Meg. 

M. Lee. Why not? 

Grim. She's his* 

Body and soul, and ready to his whistle 
As any well-kicked cur. 

(Lance rises.) 

LanCe. Ho ! I am sweaty. 

How tall the dawning sky appears to be 
In midst of summer. I cannot attain it 
By climbing with ray eyes. If winter would come 
And blacken down, I think my health would mend. 
But summer is an awful time to die. 
If grace could choose, the winter hanging low 
Would hit my preference. How long have I slept? 

Stewart. A quarter, sir. 

Lance. No more? I thought 'twas years. 

How have I travelled and been all distempered ; 
First over my imaginary life, 
From end to end, and each particular, 
Which apprehended minutes. Then quick turned 
All of my seven senses into distance, 
Or but one sense, of farness without end 
Or measurement. My head seemed set away 
Miles from my body ; not one star from star 
Is quartered as the thoughtless space, which beuds 
Between one thing and another. 



80 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

M. Lee. That's bad. 

Ham, I think your liver's wrong. 

Lance. What's good for it? 

M. Lee. No sort of drug. But only righteous food 
In convent quantities. I have observed 
How doctors thrive by overfeeding ; so 
Eat little, little drink, and take the sun; 
That's my advice. 'Tis as impossible 
That herbs should change the body as religion 
Should change the mind. 

Lance. But I care little for drink, 

And hold it high absurdity for men 
To be intemperate. I am spare of food 
And keep the doctor's rule better than the golden. 

M. Lee. Well, there's the trouble. You o'er do the 
cure 
Which you once needed, but now being well 
Need it no longer. I have often noticed 
How crammed your waistcoat pockets were with vials, 
That you would taste of every now and then. 
These, in my weak opinion, are the cause 
Of all your sickness. If you put them by, 
The pains they aggravate will go with them, 
And sovran nature, her own remedy, 
Patch up her dwelling. 

Lance. Ay, that's reasonable. 

I will abandon them, at least a time. 
And judge their absence. If I am no better 
Within a week, or rather, if no worse, 
I'll rid myself for good. 

M. Lee. Let me smell of them. 

Lance. Here is a dozen. {Hands them to Martin Lee.) 

M Lee. Men and medicine 

Are known by odors. Pish! what a character! (Sniffs 

them.) 
And these three are mates in sin. They would hang 
An honest man, for an intent to poison 
All his rich relatives. Over with them. 
Now the river's sick. 
Lance. That's quick, very quick. 

M. Lee. So much the better. If you had these with 
you, 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

The smallest pain would seem to grow, for lack 

Of their relief, and you would take them spite 

Of all your resolutions. I ne'er knew 

A man but was more sick of fear than body ; 

More ready for the doctor than his dose. 

Deceit's the oldest remedy, and quacks 

Who can use men can cure them. 

Lance. Ay, mere tools 

Our sickness makes of us. {Exeunt.) 



Scene III. — The sheriff's tavern. 

Enter H. Buel to the Sheriff. 

Sheriff. Faith, Harry, I have been thinking. 

H. Buel. That's nothing odd, unless about something 
good, like the paying of the money you owe me. If it 
was out at one per cent, I would have dollar for dollar by 
this time. 

Sheriff. I thought your love, more than the law, had 
outlawed those things, Harry. I am clean bottomed, in 
the condition of a pumpkin ; my meat sacrificed to keep 
up an appearance, and an ugly one at that. Bless me, I 
make more money than a mint, and spend more than a 
Californian. Where's the hole in my stocking? 

H. Buel. The hole in your head runs to your boots; 
that's the road to bankruptcy. You cannot have a good 
brand but you drink the best; nor a fat turkey but you 
eat her out of jealousy of the foxes. Traders are made 
to swallow the dross of their goods, or people would buy 
first hand and save the per centum. Drink your stale 
malt, like an economist should, and find the way to save 
money. 

Sheriff. I tell you, Harry, I am concerned. 

H. Buel. And I tell you, you are not concerned in 
meeting your debts. They resemble nothing as much as 
the Assyrians, being as numberless as the sands. You 
know well enough you have spoiled three pairs of axles 
I gave you the three Christmases of last year, for lack of 
grease. Every time the smoking wheels turn round 



82 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

they cry out for oil, till all the thieves in the county 
know who's coming. Then you forgot to feed your 
horse for a fortnight, and on thinking on't, gave him a 
fortnight's bait at one crib. The beast dies ; not till he 
has had one fair fodder. I would have shot him and 
saved my grain, but you ne'er knew what was best, even 
in horse-flesh. 

Sheriff. Will you call up these little things, Harry? 
I thought them but debts of gratitude; what comes 
before or after shaking hands. 

H. Buel. Ay, both after and before; but think you 
seriously I would lend to you? No, I lend to honest men 
and give to knaves. I expect something from one and 
not a thing from the other. If you had not forty 
children, that run round you like stars round the sun, it 
would be a blessing to brain you outright. But come, 
what's on your mind that looks through your face? A 
question, but some sport. 

Sheriff. That's it, sport of a serious kind. 
H. Buel. What's the game? 
Sheriff. Man. 

H. Buel. Less than a coon and better than a partridge. 
What's his name? 

Sheriff. Mark you, Harry, I mean to end this Captain 
Lance. If you had as much foresight as wit, you would 
see the need to us and the justice to all the world. He 
knows our secrets. He's a brand to our powder. That's 
not all. The more I think, the more plain he has a 
villainous intent on our friends. 
H. Buel. Oh! not so bloody. 

Sheriff. He has more blood on his hands than in his 
body. I know as well as the law knows not, that his 
last three boatmen were put out of the way. I had it 
straight from one man and another, so I am bound to 
hitch him up to a tree, and save the costs to the county. 
No one has a better right than I, or a better pluck to 
draw it. Mark how he flung a cap over old Lee. He has 
the money and he has our friends. Tis easy to see what 
will happen to our friends. Put to it, he can say they 
left me here or there. The whole world cannot disprove 
him. Now I am bound on a private dance this time; I 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 83 

am made up to it, Harry. I am a clock to that tick. I 
will not be nayed. 

H. Buel. I am mum. 

Sheriff. So will Lance be by to-morrow night. 

H. Buel. How is it to be clone? 

Sheriff. I have thought of that. His death is nothing. 
Tis the catching of the fox. Then here's his hole. It 
is the custom at this time of the year to take wood at 
Stoughton; and as he has a leaky tub and few men, he 
will tie for the night. He sleeps upon the deck, so it 
will be all the easier. 

H. Buel. For God's sake no hanging. I cannot 
stomach it. A hangman's gravity is a hangman's special 
gift. It holds not in me, but if you are in for sudden 
work with a gun, I'm with you to the end oft. 

Sheriff. The farther the better. A bullet is none too 
long off for him. 

H. Buel. Well, then, I am in the pack with you. I 
can lay my numbers over any man in well doing. 

Enter Tim and Holliday. 

Sheriff. What put it into your head in the nick of 
time to come out here? 

Tim. Our heads? Ask our stomachs and the answer 
is behind you. What now, brother? 

Sheriff. No; what will you? 

Tim. The best. That's the only I know. Have it 
writ on my stone : He died of the best. 

Holliday. Odds ; that's the very thing I'm fond of. 

Sheriff. Now drink till you get courage. I have better 
work anon. 

Tim. I am ready for either. Are you in it, Harry? 

H. Buel. In thy mug? No; and save you the canni- 
balism. 

Sheriff. That's Tim's own. There is nothing but that 
and the cask to fill his appetite. When the tester of 
weights and measures came to seal mine, I gave him 
this, and full to the handle at that. Oh ! he took three 
breaths and tugged, but 'twas no go to the bottom. You 
are a ruined man, quoth he, and his standard looked like 
a gill in a peck. 



84 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Tim. To the point, brother. That's an old storj% 

Sheriff. Old tales are the sweetest. 

Tim. As old rats have longest tails. 

Holliday. Ay, to the point. What's on the line to- 
day? Since I was sworn deputy with my left hand, for 
the judge said 'twas all one for a left-handed man, I have 
been piped to nothing but dull executions and debtors' 
oaths. I will murder my wife, if nothing more than to 
go to a hanging. 

Sheriff. Know you one skipper Lance? 

Tim. Faith yes ; who knows him not? 

Sheriff. Then you get at my meaning. It is well 
known by every one save the juror; he has more 
murders than years. Wherefore, what are we for? 
That's a question without an answer, because the answer 
is plainer than the question. If we have not a right to 
hang him, I know not who has. Are you dough to that 
stiffness? Do your knees answer? How now? 

Holliday. Like steel. He has no right to live longer. 
I thought of going alone by myself, but company is most 
pleasant where least needed. 

H Buel. Could you as easy as that? 

Holliday. One to one is a fair match, but I might be 
put through for manslaughter, or grand larceny, or the 
like, if I was single. They will hang one where they 
will praise a dozen. The world thinks every crowd 
makes the country. But one honest man can spoil a 
dozen knaves. 

Sheriff. But there are thirteen knaves to every honest 
man. 

Tim. Come, brother, is Lance to swing or not; are 
you playing us a joke or no? 

Sheriff. To-morrow night, by nine at least, if your 
horses can run to Stoughton so quick. Is that enough? 
Get strong girts and be ready. We start before the sun, 
and that rises at five, so be on hand no later than three 
this morning. Then we can pick our way by daylight, 
for I mean to take short cuts round bends. And mind 
you there will be less talk and more of another quality 
needed. 

Holliday. How shall we take him? 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 85 

Sheriff. He has the custom to sleep in his hammock 
on the deck like a grackle on the corn. We will rush in 
and shoot and throw his body overboard. 

Holliday. Leave this and that to me. No man is 
better able to shoot than I, or to fling than I, or do aught 
than I. I was born, bred and begot in Kentucky, where 
all three of those things are practiced in prime. My 
mother said I was begotten in the eastern parts and 
brought to light in the western ; for my father had 
moved meanwhile, so no one can say he has more of 
Kentucky in him than I. 

/Sheriff. Save Tim. 

Tim. Now the world be done for. 

H. Buel. That's like saying grace over you. Be a 
good dish. 

Sheriff. He'll be hot in a minute. Leave him alone for 
eating. 

H. Buel. Come, this is enough. Go home and take a 
nap. We have a hard ride and a bitter end. 

Holliday. Where shall we meet? 

Sheriff. Here before the door, and do not come gallop- 
ing up the street, to spare your horses and let the 
neighbors sleep. If there are no questions asked, there 
will be none to answer. If some are put, lies must be 
told, and lies are sticky, even in a good cause. Be sly. 
Every man approves of this, but fears every other does 
not. There's nothing a wise man fears as his own 
opinions. 

Tim. Now I'll believe you when you say you are 
afraid of nothing. 

H. Buel. Take my arm, Tim. Take my left, Holliday. 
My road is the same as yours. Along, along ! We have 
bad work ahead. 

Tim. There was but one man made like you, Harry. 

(Exeunt. ~) 

Scene IV. — A room in Lee's house. 

Enter Harry Buel and Jane Dor. 

H. Buel. Oh ! I must hurry away, the more the pity, 
Because as often as I set my heart 
In your sweet ties, and think to spend an hour 



86 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

In love with you, some one breaks in. Then soft, 

We must be unsuspect. The better part 

Of freeness, for that's love's own child, is whipped 

And fastened in our looks, and there, poor child, 

He would sob, the rods would hear. That's the first 

spasm 
That after drives me to a mad vexation, 
And ends in doing nothing. All this trouble 
For fear it shall be known we love each other; 
The gossips get the scent and drive it home 
Unto my father. Then those who sell scandal 
Retail us round the town. Oh, how I hate them, 
These folks that set themselves up for our copy, 
But gaudy stamps, so mean and flashy, so 
111 representative of what the world 
Holds dearest in its unexpressed bosom; 
For those who talk the least, least rate themselves ; 
And those who most, put a vain price upon 
Their quantity. So haps it, as thyself 
Art the first person to thy own success ; 
The parrots of the world win by esteem 
And a self confidence. I tell you, Jane, 
That I will wed you spite their clack and caw. 
Wilt marry me to-morrow? 

Jane Dor. If I live. 

H. Buel. Aud why shouldst not? How sorrowfully 
you look 
Upon the ground. Art turned a Jewess, sweet? 
For they are ever wont their heavy eyes 
To drop upon their toes. A merrier man 
Would quote your cheeks the very rate of health ; 
Your season May, and these your cherub lips 
All dappled o'er with kisses. Give me one, 
Or lend it me in debt. Then I'll begone. 

Jane Dor. What is your hurry? It cannot be yet 
Five minutes since you came. 

H. Buel. Oh! some business. 

Jane Dor. Something you will not tell me ? 

H. Buel. No, not that. 

What's the use to wed and love, if mates 
Keep secrets from each other? 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 87 

Jane Dor. Good-by. 

H. Buel. Why ! not so sad. 

Jane Dor. I cannot help it. 

H. Buel. Fie, 

To-morrow shall be onr happiest day. 
Kiss me and I'm off. (Kisses her and exit.) 

Jane Dor. He's not himself. 
No, there's an oddity about him ; a strangeness 
That lacks a definition, save in his eyes ; 
And those are dictionaries without words, 
And so they tell him best. Hum, if I read, 
They are troubled some, and indeed are drawn 
Farther beneath the shelter which o'erhangs them. 
So they were ready to jump out the further 
Upon a wrathful errand. Sure this bodes 
Something unnatural and out of sorts. 
For on a hundred occasions have I seen him, 
Nor once ensconced like this, but fair as Heaven. 
His vision forward, and his every part 
A bright confession, as young men should show, 
Not frowning like a stormy angel, but 
A bashful forwardness. Sure this was he, 
And the same still. Only I think he bears not 
The like proportion of his cheerfulness. 
But that's all one ; when he has reached his middle 
These trifles will be no more than pelting hail ; 
And when his age, they'll fall like snow-flakes soft 
Upon his beard. But hush, my thoughts, and live 
Only within my bosom. 'Tis his honor, 
Or garbed honor, but that's enough. 

Enter Js. Lee. 

Js. Lee. I thought I heard your voice, Jane. Were 
you a-talking? 

Jane Dor. Yes, to myself. I want no further and no 
better company. 

Js. Lee. You must have a split tongue, like a young 
crow, and one side talk to the other. Listen and I will 
teach you the prettiest knack of words of any bird. For 
you are my little bird. 

Jane Dor. You vex me. Indeed vou vex me. 



0<5 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Js. Lee. That's nothing odd. I am vexed myself. 
The cares of justice, the public well-doing, my duty, my 
office are breaking me down. I am sick, but all shall say 
when I die, Now — 

Jane Dor. Now what? 

Js. Lee. Nov) his duty has worked him to death ! 

Jane Dor. Your duty ! Fie. They may say it, and 
draw the price of a lie on your estate. That's quite the 
fashion. If a fat senator, swilled with grease and wine, 
or a tinkering cabinet member drop dead in their platters, 
'tis their duty that killed them, not the lazy apoplexy. 
Oh, fie, fie, fie ! Such bellies, such heads, such knaves ! 
Such stuffing out of the common trough and grunting 
from the common sow. If a farmer or coal-heaver goes 
off at thirty, 'tis nature that took him. Oh! shame, 
shame ! 

Js. Lee. Whate'er's the cause, Jane? I am sick, sick. 

Jane Dor. Pity on you. I cannot help it. 

Js. Lee. Pity, none of that sour quality. Spare me 
from the whines of pity. What I want is thy love, thy 
caresses. Now my son is gone, my daughter gone, I need 
your consolation. You will deny me no longer. 

Jane Dor. Why, deny you before the parson? 

Js. Lee. The parson to his hobby, damnation, and we 
to love. 

Jane Dor. No, your honor, I am nothing of that kind. 

Js. Lee. You are a silly girl, though your years betoken 
you a woman. Have you not learned a bit of the world? 
Have you not studied, what's unknown is unrepented? 
Your conscience is your good name, no more ; and good 
names come by stiff faces. Now, my love, my dove — 

Jane Dor. Away, away! Get to your meals. (Exit.) 

Js. Lee. I will follow you. I will pest you. (Exit.) 

Scene V. The boat and shore at Stoughton. 

Enter Sheeiff, Harry Buel and Holliday. 

Sheriff. I'm sorry for the moon. 
H. Buel. Well, let her shine, 

The light of villains. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 89 

Enter Tim. 

Sheriff. Are the horses baited, 

So they'll not neigh and set him on the watch? 
That's an unnatural sound. 

Tim. Ay, tied and baited. 

Sheriff. That's well. Can you see Lance? From 
where I stand 
The waning shadow of the moon bars oft' 
My lookout of the deck. 

H. Buel. 'Tis plain from here. 

And now already he is lain to rest. 
He's early for the morning start, and soon 
Will be fast locked in sleep. 

Sheriff. He shall not wake. 

Come, choose a weapon. 

Holliday. Daggers are the surest. 

Sheriff. What's best? Now, or wait for the later 
hours, 
Which are the masters of men's dreams? If now, 
We may uprouse them all. 

H. Buel. No, not so long. 

That would be tedious to my soul and body, 
And doubly out of the way. If his crew 
Wake to his rescue, which I think they will not, 
We will stand off, after we hit him once. 
I will be short, and not harm innocence. 
That is not our mistrust. 

Sheriff. Yes, that were best, 

Than harm a guiltless hair. But who of us 
Shall be the one to end him? 

Holliday. I've forgot 

My knife. 

Sheriff. And you? 

Tim. You know I'm in the habit 

Of carrying only pistols. 

H. Buel. Ay, if need 

For nothing but daggers. But come stand by me. 
There's nothing to be done but must be done. 
And to shirk the inevitable is worse 
Than cowardice. Yet I hate to slop my fingers 
In his blood. But come on. 'Twill soon be over. 



90 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Holliday. Ay, we are here. 

H. Buel. Well, do not show your faces. 

He may cry out your names. Soft, now I'm on him. 

(Advances.*) 
Lance ! Lance ! Wake up ! 

Lance. What, is it morning yet? (Rises.) 

No ; who are you? 'Tis midnight by your looks. 
Say, what's your errand? 

H. Buel. We have come to kill you ; 

And for your murders done. Nay, do not stir. 
I hold your poor, weak body in my hand 
Like a dead stick. Now if you have a faith 
In any providence, short be your prayer. 
I do not like to murder you so darkly. 

Lance You have not this hand. Die! (Strikes with 
a knife.) 

H. Buel. Friends, hold me up! (Dies.) 

Sheriff. Why do you weigh so heavy? Are you dead? 
Oh ! he has done for you. Quick ! quick ! revenge ! 
Murder and hack the villain that has done this. 
Ho, there ! where are you? 

Lance. Dog> here come your cries. 

Enter Boatmen and Meg. 

Tim. Hurry, fly, fly ! 

(Exeunt Tim and Holliday.) 

Sheriff. You cowards to the quick. 

If I had one good man to take this burden, 
I would strangle you this minute. Think of me 
Every night, and you shall live to wish 
That you were never born. (Exit with body.) 

Enter Conway, Martin Lee and Julia Lee. 

Con. What is the noise? 

Lance. Of some one running. 

Con. Whose horses do I hear? 

What does it mean? 

Lance. You are question for question, 

And fairly even with my ignorance. 
Now that the hurry's over, I surmise 
A band of robbers tried to steal in on me, 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 91 

And rob the fruit of my person. But I woke 
In time to hit the assassin, or one 
Who bended o'er me with his knife undressed, 
And hand upon my arm. But I was swifter, 
And hit him in the heart. Least he fell back 
Upon a mate, who bore him off with curses 
And cries of vengeance. This is all I know. 
My arm begins to pain me. Will you look? 
Has it been broken? 

Meg. Yes, oh, yes ! 

Lance. Art sure? 

Meg. The bone pricks through the skin. 

Lance. What if my neck 

Had grown upon my wrist. Ha, ha ! 

Stewart. I will set it. 

Lance. There's bandages in the cabin. Come quickly 
Before it swells. 

{Exeunt Lance, Stewart, Allen and Meg.) 

Grim. This floor is washed with blood, 

And I can tell you that 'tis no catiff's mire, 
But the life of a man. Yet I did know him 
Only by hearsay, but all folks proclaimed him 
Above a hint of dross ; even of one 
Who passes with the world, for what it makes 
Out of its idle time ; what it would be 
If it had not a being that could not be so. 
And what every parent would set up 
Before his children. 

M. Lee. What, and a bold thief ! 

Well, strange graces adorn strange men. A good man 
Often has such a crabbed knack of giving 
He will make more enemies than a robber 
Who is polite with humor. One tragic bow 
Outshines a thousand smiles. 

Grim. Why dost imagine 

That these were thieves? 

Jul. Lee. Were they not?' 

Grim. No, I tell you ; 

What I thought you suspected. These were officers 
On his arrest ; I o'erheard Buel say so 



92 COMFORT IN -A CORNER. 

When he fell clown. He was the topmost fellow 
In many a good man's heart. 'Tis a great pity, 
But cannot now be helped. One time before 
In Alabama a parcel set on Lance 
To hang him out of hand, but he got off 
With courage of the quickest. 

Jul. Lee. Buel! OBuel! 

M. Lee. Art sure 'twas he? 

Grim. None other, lady. 

Jul. Lee. Dead? 

Grim. The captain was ne'er known to miss, but 
death 
Follows upon his hand. It has not erred 
To spare a good man. 

Con. Now silence on me ; 

I take a double vengeance in his death. 
Oh, I shall speak ! It seems to me my tongue, 
More than my steel, could do him execution. 
What's that cold hand that lays us in a minute 
But a great joy. He shall not die as easy 
As my poor friend. Not if I have the handling 
Of his last moments ; but he shall pass off 
Afraid of what's to come ; and knowing it 
So well, his lips will part, his eyes stand out, 
And breath strain through his cold and chattering teeth. 
Those should be the outward signs, whereof to show 
How his soul is distressed. Leave him to me. 

M. Lee. Welcome. 

Jul. Lee. His death will not bring to life 

As fair a gentleman as ever lived. 
He might have been my torment, and not seemed 
More than a lover, whose sweet pestilence 
Tickles the world, but drew my salt tears down ; 
Yet he did see my inclinations, and 
Whate'er were his, let go his suit, and saw 
Only with smiles his rival. He was all 
That you say in his honor. 

Grim. If you knew him, 

To know him was to prove him, and enough 
Without my praise. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 93 

Con. Poor soul, he shall to-night 

Be whole. 

M. Lee. If our vengeance could make him so. 
But those that die still seem to share our spirits 
t After their death ; so what does us inspire 
Seems to please them. 

Con. We will wait some days longer 

To take him in the act. 

Grim. Three days ahead 

And we shall make a cavern, where he will stop 
Out of pretences for your entertainment. 

Con. We understand it. 

M. Lee. But be meanwhile 

Like nothing had occurred. 

Grim. I pledge you. {Exeunt.) 

Scene VI. — A grave. 
Enter Sheriff, Holliday and Tim. 

Tim. This is sad. I would as lief see myself in the 
grave as poor Harry. There had not one of the deputies 
died for so long I thought I should be first to go, seeing 
I am naturally weak of body. But Providence takes 
without asking. If it would have laid its cold hand on 
me, what a blessing.to my tears. 

Sheriff. A great blessing, but not to be looked for. 

Tim. No one knows, brother. There are certain 
twinges around my heart that may carry me off any day. 
Sadly, sadly, but I have faith, and that's better than fine 
summits over one. What a life in faith, Holliday ! 
What a smile ! 

Holliday. Ay, the whip of death makes no mark on a 
good man. Upright men are as full of courage as up- 
rightness. They never spare danger, because they fear 
not the end. Harry was this mould of a man. He was 
our copy, and to tell the truth, we had near hit his bright 
parts. Some would say we had passed over him, but 
only to my back. No man dare praise me to my face. 
I hate flattery worse than death. 

Sheriff. I wish the funeral would pass. 

Holliday. I love not to see the dead. 'Tis only duty. 



94 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Sheriff. But it would relieve the wit of you two. 

Tim. Brother, this grave is of thy own digging. If 
you had had the proper pluck you would have stopped 
the villain's arm. But as 'twas you only dragged off a 
dead body, which is nothing to boast of to a live man. 

Sheriff. And you. God gave you nothing but legs, by 
the way you ran. If you had as .much speed in your 
hands as your heels, the skipper would be floating down 
the river before this. As for the blow, no one on earth 
could have managed it. 

Tim. Brother, thy name is ingratitude. If poor Harry 
were alive, he would scatter his thanks from his bushel. 
Not this, oh not this ! 

Holliday. He spurns us, Tim. 

Tim. That was always his jade's trick. From his 
youth up he was as much unlike our Harry as you could 
reckon. An ungrateful brother, a neighbor of no more 
grace than a hand-spike. When his next door offered to 
give him half of his beeve, if he would not steal the other 
half, he took it without thanks, but quoth, Hose beef by 
it. Drain him off, he is all mud, Holliday. 

Holliday. A great pity. 

Sheriff. A great lie, and told like grace. No man of 
any stomach would think of it more. But there are sour 
men that take these stories for good. Look, Tim, that 
you peddle them not among such. They are idiots; you 
know they are. 

Tim. Yes, fool against fool. 

Sheriff. I could say nothing against the mettle of you 
and Holliday, more than my own. 'Tis a bad mess and 
no mending. If we get well out of it, we must make one 
story fit three mouths. 

Holliday-. Agreed. 

Sheriff. Then all rest easy. But hark! Can you not 
hear the pacing of the funeral horses? ' The bearers must 
take the burden hither from the gate. What a task they 
make of it ! Some thought I should have been one, but 
I should have cringed, let go my hold and be totally cold. 
What a ghostly love of the dead possesses some ! Now 
they come. Hold your eyes on the ground, though 'tis 
more natural to weep to heaven. But the fashion is the 
feet. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 95 

{Enter bearers with coffin, also Js. Lee, the father and 
mother, and other mourners.) 

Mrs. Buel. Oh, dead, dead, dead ! 

Js. Lee. Ay, dead, but do not weep 

And wring your hands. Gone in a little sense 
And shallow meaning of the pitied word ; 
That is to die, -and leave the outward world 
To try the marvels that above await us. 
Ay, dead in life. That hits the very haven 
Where he does lie ; but to say dead to life 
Were most unholy falsehood. Rather, I 
Think him more live than dead. Oh ! 'tis not he 
That needs the droppings of our grief, but us 
Left to the flat bereavement. Now when life 
Borders eternity, just reaching out 
For what we'll not confess, but really is 
A son to be our care, comes with a frown, 
More looking unto us than to our prop, 
The dismal face of death. Well, give him welcome, 
And leave thy sobs for thy own bitter self. 
If he were one than otherwise what he is, 
The ten commandments done in living letters, 
There might be cause for grief and secret mourning 
Behind thy walls. But now your open tears 
Run for his virtues. So when you go home 
Meet calm resignment on the threshold of it, 
And let her lead your life, not rough, not wet 
With nightly weeping for your son's decease, 
But like it was before. That were his wish. 

First Mourner. How movingly his honor speaks ! 

Second Mourner. Oh! tender, 

And full of grace. 

First Mourner. He's a sweet gentleman. 

Third Mourner. And so consoling. 

Second Mourner. He seems like an angel 

Whispering into her ear; I wonder why 
She sobs so. 

First Mourner. Ay, why? 

Third Mourner. Tis a strange perverseness ; 

More contrary in women than in men, 
This pelting of the ground with tears. 



96 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

First Mourner. If only 

She would put her handkerchief before her eyes, 
'Twoulcl be more seemly. 

Second Mourner. Hush, now he speaks. 

Js. Lee. Come, madame, take my arm. 

Mrs. Buel. Oh! your honor. (Exeunt) and drop.) 

ACT V. 

Scene I. — A cavern. 

Enter Lance and his Boatmen, Conway, M. Lee, Julia 

Lee and Meg. 

Lance. Oh, it is wearing late and wearing late, 
But yet I cannot sleep. Why are you up 
And shadows of my watch? I do advise you 
Straight to your beds. This fever works in me 
A heady, walking temperature to rise, 
Caused by my arm, I think. A single part 
Being distracted, eats as does the rot 
Into the system. This runs through the channels 
And arteries of my blood ; but by the morning 
It will be well; and you are younger eyes. 
Feed them with sleep, if you would keep them bright. 
Tomorrow will be time to sound this cavern. 
I will delay. In fact, my only reason 
For letting you this visit, was to show 
"What a fine house it makes. 

M. Lee. For the dead? 

Lance. No, 

But for the trade of life, eating and sweating. 

M. Lee. I think a liner charnel. 

Lance. It is gloomy, 

If that's all that a story-teller needs 
To build a dead-house. Yet, for all I see, 
Tis a good dwelling, made by the first mason 
Who roofed his house with the world. 

M. Lee. The world our roof ; 

That's worth remembering, a new sentiment. 
I've heard you were a preacher on a time, 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 97 

But gave it up for better trade. Yet still 
You speak like one. 

Lance. Our first lessons are last 

To be forgot. 

M. Lee. Then you were a young preacher? 

Lance. No bishop ne'er ordained me, but I tried 
A hand at it. 

M. Lee. Truly a hand? 

Lance. Ay, I could have said two. 

M. Lee. But that's all one. I was thinking of the 
world. 
The world a roof ; the world a leaky roof. 
Who trusts to it, to this ungrateful world, 
Gets rained on for his pains. Is that not so? 

Con. A trusty moral for bad purposes, 
But true. I thought you would say something more 
To that effect. 

M. Lee. So I would. 

Con. Well, go on. 

M. Lee. Lance, here Lance, here ! How would you 
like to die 
And lie here in your coffin? 

Lance. That's an odd question. 

31. Lee. Death is at odds with all. He is that angel 
That has no worshipper. For speculation 
Where we may travel, like in unknown countries, 
That's all. The topmost apple of knowledge, captain. 

Lance. Hum, then 'tis not worth climbing for. Those 
are 
The fairest fruits of knowledge, which do hang 
Only within your reach. The others else, 
Fantastic and unsound. 

M. Lee. No; but I pray you. 

Lance. Well, then, death to me is like to every man, 
A thing to talk about, and little thought on, 
Because it is the habit to talk idly 
And think in earnest. A blessed uncertainty 
That never bothers mortals. And my grave 
Can only trouble me while I do live 
And have no use for it. After my death 
It makes no matter where I lie. 



98 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

31. Lee. 'Twere best 

Not to pore o'er our death at all. 

Lance. That's it. 

31. Lee. I can see you are a philosopher, 
Or else your song belies your voice. Then tell me, 
As thought is music to well-timed heads, 
How a lank villain feels about to murder 
His three truest friends? 

Lance. What's that? 

31. Lee. I say, 

Can you divide the passions, as some make show, 
One from another, and tell what are the feelings 
Of murderers about to kill a friend. 

Lance. Unfriendly. 

Con. Come, do not bandy with me; 

You know our meaning. Why does your hand reach 
Beneath your skulking cloak? It does not find 
The treasure it is after; thy knife, thy knife. 
Oh ! 'tis not there. We are not such innocence 
To take any chances with you. 

Lance. Fie, Conway, 

Your joke is tragedy. 

Con. Oh, villain ! villain ! 

I will act it soon. Do you not see this knife, 
That looks forth from my hand into your face? 
Has that the seeming of being play? You know 
'Tis not, or you could see by looking round. 
What's in our faces, murderer? 

Lance. They all try 

To look me down. But what's the cause for it 
Is o'er my hills of memory. Perhaps 
You know the cause. I hope you do, but I 
Am ignorant as a dog untaught. 'Tis pity 
To kill an innocent man. 

Con. Talk not of innocence 

That are about to die. We have struck hands 
To be the law. The morning shall be black 
Under your eyelids. Therefore prepare for death. 

Lance. Stewart! Grim! 

Grim. Do not call on us. We have told. 

Con. Yes, they have let all to me: your theft, your 
plot. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 99 

You would not this for f orty years of honor, 
But for a little pelf. How strange, how usual, 
And usual, because 'tis strange. 

Lance. Ho, Stewart ! 

Help me from this madman. 

Con. I will not hurry. 

You shall have time to think. Villains like you, 
That hold no pity for any man or woman, 
Have a great deal for themselves. Heaven ordained 
They should be punished some way. 

Lance. Oh ! sweet lady, 

Have you a heart to see this? 

Jul. Lee. You are giylty. 

Lance. Guilty of what? 

Con. You laid in to murder us. 

That we do know, and we can only guess 
How many immigrants have been your prey 
For their lean purses. You have stabbed poor Buel, 
And called him thief, to save yourself. 

Lance. What ! on the deck? 

Con. Yes. 

Lance. I knew not who 'twas, 

As I said at the time. 

Con. But you killed him. 

Lance. Yes, or he would have me. 

Con. I do not blame you 

For your defence ; a herald from the heart, 
Like all quick acts, but for the evil deeds 
That made it necessary. There's the fault. 
God have mercy on you. Be short your prayer. 
Some would have hanged you, but I will use 
Quick, honorable steel. 

Lance. Must it be so? 

Look to yourselves. No one does see you here, 
But sooner or later this must come to the public. 
A secret shared is secrets told ; and you 
Tell all you know, at least you did to me. 
These drunken fellows will be among mates, 
Rousing a spree, and want something to boast, 
And peach you all. First a dark hint or two, 
Then the whole storv, and vour fountain-head 



100 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Of a puddle of trouble. The hard law 

Will be the last to hear, but worst to hold you. 

Their deafuess makes men stubborn. If at last 

You are let off by perjured evidences, 

The stain, the stigma, and the voice of men, 

Is against one who kills a fellow. Mark 

The time you will be held as witnesses 

In prison, oft outlasts the punishment. 

That is not all. My friends are thick" as stars 

And swift as meteors. Oh, you had better 

Be walled within a prison than let them know 

You have done this bloody thing ! Yes, you will come 

To think a stinking cell a grateful dwelling ; 

And the chatter of lawyers' clerks a song 

Compared to their threats of vengeance." All I beg 

Is law and justice. Here, bind my well arm, 

And tie my knees, and wrack me with disgrace ; 

Load me on dung-carts, if their wheels will carry 

My sick and feeble body to the law. 

Allen. He speaks it well. 

Stewart. The captain speaks it well. 

Allen. 'Tis certain who fills up his hands with ven- 
geance 
Steals from the law. 

Stewart. Ay, steals the law's right. 

Allen. What do you say? 

Stewart. 'Tis true the law was made — 

Con. You ! you ! you ! — 

Lance. Oh ! do not hit me. 

Meg. Here ! Here ! 

Here is your knife. (Hands Lance a dagger.) 

Lance. Now I'm myself. I'm gone. 

But think of me. 

Con. Turnback. Die, die! (They exchange blows.) 

Lance. Oh ! you have done for me. (Dies.) 

Jul. Lee. Are you wounded, love? 

Con. A prick, that's all, but a very little closer 
And I would take my journey along with him. 

Grim. He stares at us most dreadfully. (Exit Jfeg.) 

M. Lee. I wonder 

How old he was. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 101 

Con. His face might be a youth, 

Sported with mad excess, or an old man, 
Naturally gone down. 

M. Lee. But close on to fifty? 

Con. Yes, always lacking sleep. That cuts more 
wrinkles 
Than any other folly. It can cure 
Them all save its own lack. 

Allen. Where's Meg? 

Jul. Lee. She ran away as soon as the skipper fell. 

Allen. That saves us the hanging of her. 

Con. She was in the deed with him, or like a child 
followed his deeds. But there's not a morsel of bread 
within a ten mile. Starving were as bad as hanging, any 
day. 

Allen. She has enough in her belly to last her any dis- 
tance. She cannot want, for she was born with her 
profession about her. There's a good living at it till all 
the world is women. 

Grim. She was a sweet cookery. All her dishes 
smelled like the federal court. 

Stewart. And tasted like the judge's verdict, more 
pepper than salt. 

Allen. What shall we do with the body? The river 
would be a proper cemetery. There's not a Christian 
denomination would give him burial, not a preacher that 
would come a mile on a chance of saving his soul, because 
the chances were against him. Take his feet, Grim, and I 
his head. That's the way many a brave man has gone 
before him. 

31. Lee. We could as well put him in the ground. 

Con. We must come to the same, one place or another. 

Grim. That's wise. The same and dust. March on, 
Allen, to the tune of dust, and we will start this clay on 
its last road. (Exeunt with body.) 

Con. Getting a new master makes a new man. 

Stewart. It's to be hoped you will be better than the 
old one. 

31. Lee. That I will. You have saved our lives, what 
they are worth. You shall be used decently, and that's 
all I can give you now. 



102 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Stewart. The whole thing- was our own lookout. 
First 'tis the mother and then the young ones. He has 
the wisdom of a serpent. It would have been our turn 
to follow you. 

Jul. Lee. What's to be done next? Shall we here or 
there, hither or thither? 

M. Lee. I think it best for me to return with this 
property. That's my part, but you shall keep on as if 
nothing had happened, till you hear from me. 

Jul. Lee. That is an easy part for me, but a hard one 
on you. I could not think of you but I would be sorry 
I had not gone myself. When we were small, as young 
as first-mated birds, I was never so worked up as when 
I had shirked a task upon you. I must think of my 
ungratefulness, small endeavor, and your hardship. To 
dread labor is to do it thrice, and to shift it to some other 
is to do both theirs and your own. 

M Lee. Fie ! sister, a bit of repentance pays for a load 
of wrong. The tiding state of girlhood has its own 
excuse. Our father will be so glad to see his property, 
any one who carries it will be welcome. Then you know, 
sister, he has no temper against me, more than a stub 
that trips him up. We are a man and a missile, and so 
ends our battle when I stop throwing myself at him. I 
will be put across in the boat and start short, the quicker 
the better. 

Con. Wait till the morning. 

31. Lee. I will not let the morning -wait for me. 

Jul. Lee. Then go, and my love help you along. 

31. Lee. Stay, and my love be with you. Blessings are- 
as good at home as on the road. Good-by. (Exit.) 

Con. What's the burden of your mind, sweet? 

Jul. Lee. As there were happier times ahead. 

Con.. Because there are bad behind. Our forethought 
is always looking for a change. 

Jul. Lee. I hope so much. This bloody crime has 
wrought me up bitterly. I could not bear to think ; I must 
shudder at the time to come, as what has gone by. 

Con. Nay, you shall not. There's no way to get rid 
of frights as to forget them. Let's wash ourselves in 
sleep and we will wake clean of all this. There's nothing 
like the light to settle evil dreams. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 103 

Jul. Lee. All that happens in the clay takes a foul 
color, and troubles me in the night. 

Con. Not if I can keep them away by kissing you. 

Jul. Lee. Fie, are you not the same nettled? 

Con. No, the opposite. What's evil in the clay is fair 
in my dreams. 

Stewart. I have heard of men taken that way. 

Con. 'Tis as good as any, seeing life is struck even 
between good and bad. 

Enter Grim and Allen with a keg. 

Stewart. What have you there? 

Con. The last testament of the captain. 

Jul. Lee. Hark, clo not speak of him ! 

Con. Let us to bed, sweet. You have not the blessed 
gift of drinking. {Exeunt Conway and Julia.) 

Stewart. Now uncradle thy secret. 

Allen. Get the breeze from it, man. 

Stewart. (Smelling.) It has the family likeness of 
malt, but which brother plagues me. Some foreigner, I 
reckon. 

Grim. Beer, fool, beer. 

Stewart. All hail! Where was he from? 

Grim. When the late skipper could not get gin he 
would swig this, though they must consort like two cocks 
in the belly. We are his heirs. Fall to. 

Stewart. Methinks the palates of criminals are as bad 
as their morals. 

Allen. Have you no soul, man? 

Stewart. (Sings.) 

We are three merry men, 
And we are three merry men. 

Grim. That's the sweet tune of it. The more you 
drink the merrier you grow. Where did you learn that, 
Stewart? 

Stewart. In my spelling-book, next to the word liquor- 
ish. There was "Drink and be Merry" on the same 
page, also. 



104 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Allen. It takes too much of this to get tipsy. More ! 
more ! 

Stewart. Who's too lazy to drink? 

Allen. The man that is sober. He is spare. 

Stewart. {Sings.) 

The world began 

With a lazy man, 

So it goes by kind, 

I'm a lazy man. 

My father and my mother, * 

My sister and my brother, 

Did all forswear me. 

But I got me a wife, 

The honey of my life. 

Oh ! sweet bee ! she does care me. 

Grim. So. Drink, I tell you. Every day is too short 
for good deeds and hard drinking. 
Stewart. That's the mint, sweetheart. 
Allen. Here's more, twin Adam. Is there no end to 
you? {All drink.) 
Stewart. {Sings.) 

Pretty snatches 
Go bj T catches. 

Grim. Those were the very words of the last hang- 
man. Catch as catch can, quoth he, and the poor fellow 
was in heaven, so the parson said. 

Allen. What was his crime? 

Grim. Hatred of war. He left the army for love of 
peace, and was f urloughed up to the angels. Oh ! to the 
war, to the war, to the war ! 

Stewart. {Sings.) 

There's war enough at home, my boys, 
There's war enough at home. 
Who takes to field or stony fort 
Turns coward back on home. 

Grfm. He has a wife, Allen. 

Allen. After the fashion of mine. Where hate you 
been, whoremaster? quoth she. With one of my kind, 
quoth I out of spite. With that she lards me with a 
kettle of perch that was frying on the stove. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 105 

Grim. You were good bread and butter. How did 
you feel? 
Allen. All too cheap at ten cents a double loaf. 
Grim. Was that the like of your battle, Stewart? 
Stewart. (Si?igs.) 

Let Dixie fight for herself, 

She's big enough to do't ; 

And if she can't get through't, 

She may go, go to Dixie. 

Allen. Those were the last words of his fancy. To 
the same, only the next neighbor, which is hell and no 
further. 

Stewart. No, my wife is yet to make; my sweetheart, 
yet and anon. (Sings.) 

I have gone a-wooing. 

And for my love to get. 

Her eye is like to summer, 

Her hair more like to jet ; 

She is fine, she is fine, she is fine. 

Hold me up a bit, Grim. I nod, I nod. 

Grim. Here, niddy. Does she love you? 

Steivart. Truly. 

Grim. She must take to odd fish. 

Allen. Methinks the odd fish must take to such bait. 
Drink more, Stewart. They will soon put an embargo 
on the joy of life. It will be all up with us for a long 
twelvemonth. 

Stewart. They hate us merry men. But 'tis yes yet, 
and no doubt. This state is in a state of sense, and be 
blessed. Then, then — (Sings.) 

Tell me how the votings go, 

Be they ay or be they no ? 

What has been the parson's role 

Jailing man and bailing soul ? 

Who has often to us told 

Folly in young men's born old. 

Fire, fire away, old gun ; * 

You can't miss i* the long run 

Sins that we have knowing done. 

Grim. Don't frighten me with a thought of denay. 
Tell me of lovelv love ; something with balm and rosemary 
in't. 



106 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Stewart. (Sings.) 

Time in and out of mind, girls, 
Dance around the May, girls, 
Stand the boys behind, girls, 
For to get their pay, girls. 

Grim. Sour, sour, Stewart. Not so dainty as should 
be. 

Allen. Another of these, you will be as§ drunk as'a 
fiddler. 

Grim. No, there's no bottom to our >bliss while the 
keg holds out. 

Allen. I have seen men so deep they had no bottom, 
but I am not of that kin. A song, Stewart, a pitiful one. 
I shall weep soon. 

Stewart. I know something my mammy taught me with 
the help o' the parson. 

Grim. There 'tis, the parson again. Forever flinging 
the parson at me. Talk not to me of parsons, doctors 
and lawyers, the three ministers of death. One to look 
after your soul, one your will and one your health. Each 
on his bed-post, and the undertaker hanging to the 
fourth. 

Stewart. Never mind, dear Grim, sweet Grim. They 
were two poor bodies. (Sings.) 

Let us greet 

When kisses are sweet. 

I am hoarse, lads. That was a vile little song. My 
brother said it was. More of the muster. Here ! here ! 

Allen. Here 'tis. (Hands him the keg.) 

Stewart. Thanks and thanks. Bless the cheerful 
giver. 

Allen. I must needs be cheerful. You are as endless 
as a German with a long name. 

Stewart. Greatest Germans have shortest names, where 
fortune loves them. 

Allen. And you have the longest belly, where fortune 
loves not the rest of us. 

Stewart. The keg is the deepest by the tape of my eye. 

Grim. Where, oh ! where am I? 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 107 

Allen. That's the question. Where? 
Grim. (Sings.) 

Eyes as bright as e'er was dew, 
Or little twins dressed in blue, 
Have made all my bosom rue. 
I, alas, what could I do ? 

Nothing is my remedy, 
That within my own do lie. 
They shall be my cemet'ry ; 
I, alas, I think I'll die. 

When the green is daft in snow, 
And the winter winds do blow, 
Dig me deep the frost below ; 
I, alas, preferred it so. 

Allen. Why, man, do you weep? 

Grim. Is it not sad, Allen? 

Allen. Faith no, the jolliest little song of a year. 

Grim. Oh, you prick me. That was my own case, my 
very pity case. See my tears. 

Allen. As big as apples. You must take some out, 
where so much goes in. 

Grim. She was my untrue. Oh, sad soul. 

Allen. Hush thy nonsense. What's in the entrance 
there? Oh! oh! 

Grim. A ghost, a ghost, the captain's spirit, Stewart! 

Stewart. I love them all the same, ay. 

Grim. Wake up, fool. See the white thing, the 
captain. 

Stewart. What? 

Grim. His ghost for murder. 

Stevmrt. Where's the jolly old ghost? 

Grim. There! 

Stewart. Ay, there. The ghost is drunk. He's a 
tipsy ghost. 

Allen. He's come back. Run ! run ! 

Stewart. No, that's a lie. He said he was done for 
himself. (Sings.) 

Every black has its white, 
And every sweet its sour ; 
Every day has its night. 
And every knave his hour. 



108 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Allen. Help me, Grim. Drag him along. Ho ! 
Grim. Come. (Exeunt, carrying Stewart.) 

Scene II. A room in Lee's house. 
Enter Justice Lee and Jane Dor. 

Js. Lee. I have wronged you, Jane, and I will confess 
My sin in hope of pardon. Pew and preacher 
Of every faith agree that all ns mortals 
Must beg before forgiveness. 'Tis not offered, 
Like dew and rain, to every one on earth, 
But to the humble and the very wretched ; 
I think you are an angel sure. Then do 
As angels do ; I beg you to forgive me. 

Jane Dor. For what? 

Js. Lee. Jane ! you are one of those tyrants 

That love to see men cringe to them. 

Jane Dor. Not I ; 

But I love honesty and independence. 

Js. Lee. I am honest as gold with you. Have I not 
sought you 
To be my wife? 

Jane Dor. Yes, when you had found out 
I would not be your mistress. Now you grow 
Like a model of virtue with a cough, 
And take great airs for doing this last hour 
What honest men would have done in the first. 

Js. Lee. You are hard on me. There is not a man 
But has two seasons in his life. One is 
The time of anger and more angry love ; 
Th' other the springtide of calm-bred delight. 
I've wronged you in the first, because I could not 
By any means prevent it. My love was 
Like that brief madness we allow in law 
To lessen crime. It does not wholly clear 
Of sin, which every man is born into. 
If we were perfect, we would be our God ; 
But what's repented is ne'er done. That's how 
Heaven does look on us. Can you do less 
Who cannot be unerring, but must fall 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 109 

Into mistakes? Oh ! 'tis presumption in us 
To judge our fellow-beings by their sins. 
What's broken can be mended. What is past 
Has been repented, even by His grace 
Who died for all of us. Think of my sin 
Only as dirt that has been wiped away. 
Now will you wed me? 

Jane Dor. No; what is this marriage 

To make men over? Tis only a word 
Spoken in silk and broadcloth. If your heart 
Has not the true love of the marriage vow 
In it before, virtue will last no longer 
Than the lost newness of my body. Oh ! 
You will leave my fair bed for common women ; 
I know the ways of men like you. 

Js. Lee. Then you 

Know naught but what is good. 

Jane Dor. Why, I know nothing 

But your bad use of me. You may have been 
A tender husband and a generous friend 
In times gone by. I have not taken trouble 
To ask your neighbors. Your unmanly treatment 
Of me was sign enough of your cheap manhood. 

Js. Lee. I shall not hear the last of this. The slips 
Of good men are more censured than the fall 
Of wicked ones ; more talked about and harped, 
As if the jealous world was bound to get 
Even with righteousness. Crime is the first 
To point the finger at an erring brother. 
The reason is plain. Sin makes all men equal; 
But you have done none. No, 'tis all my fault. 
You do not want to be even with me ; 
That par, that makes man and wife only happy 
When they are wed. You wish to hold yourself 
Above me in my household ; to make me cringe 
And shiver out consent. Av, on the strength 
Of my love-led and idle words, you try 
To humble me and play the little tyrant. 

Jane Dor. No, I hate bullies, whether they be women 
Or stronger men. Only you shall confess 
That you have wronged me, if not to the world, 
To vou, your inward world. 



110 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

Js. Lee. Have I not, love? 

A dozen confessions, and each one 
Worse than the last, would not make you love me, 
Or better my small fault in your large eyes. 
Oh ! be my wife, and do not look so at me 
Like a petty overseer. 

Jane Dor. You need a lesson 

In virtue. 

Js. Lee. Oh ! you are a bitter teacher. 
Less teacher than a master, as folks used 
To call the quacks of knowledge. What a jest 
On them and us ! I could be very merry 
At the pert strut of learning ! what is past 
Compared to what fleers in our faces. But 
My sadness chokes me. Think of what you are, 
And do not fetch me down to humbleness. 
What are we all ; the pensioners of an hour 
All men do quote? That is the short duration 
Of vaunted power. Then why should a man 
Love to tramp on another? Why a woman 
Cut down equality, the flower of life, 
The sweet mint of the meadow among rank 
And stinking mud of toil? Why do you look 
Upon me like a shrike of office, which 
Spurns worthy for the unworthy, who, though raised 
To power by his beings, thinks that they 
Can never pull him down? You have a seat 
Of virtue, and cast on me insolence 
For being not so high. That is the trick 
Of all the world. Each one above looks down 
Upon the one below ; the one below 
Looks up to him above, and makes his place 
Most mean by his consent. It often happens 
The world sees men through their own eyes, 
And above all you women. If I were 
A jaunty fellow, as young in the face, 
As light unto my faults, you would become 
The beggar and not I. 

Jane Dor. I would not hear him 

While you could whistle Dixie. 

Js. Lee. I am much 

The better of the two. The fluent blood 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. Ill 

Of youth has no excuse, as 'tis oft pled 
By the fond fancy of a parent. Now 
You would choose me, love. 

Jane Dor. Oh, yes ! Of two evils take the least. That 
is the only rule to marry by, now that French finery, 
which is put on over loose morals, has the upper hand. 

Js. Lee. We will be wed in a week. A day further 
would drive me mad. These long months of waiting are 
like codicils in old men's wills, a sign of folly. A quick 
marriage shows a warm heart, and a long space between 
betrothal and parson a sort of probation, like mechanic 
people take o'er a bargain. 

Jane Dor. So short? 

Js. Lee. Would you have time to change your mind, 
as the fashion? 

Jane Dor. No, those who make fashions shall wear 
them. That's punishment enough. I am none of the 
fashion. 

Js. Lee. You are a fashion of your own, and that's 
the worst. Let the time be short, at least. A woman 
should set her wedding day. 

Jane Dor. Then in six months, if you will husband 
me. 

Js. Lee. At any time, love. 

Jane Dor. Not so quick in your promise. Those who 
mate easy, break easy, and you have cause. You shall 
hear from me. When I am done we will hold the past 
nothing and the future nothing, and the present time 
enough to forget all in. Now you will not love me so 
well in a minute. 

Js. Lee. What's the matter? 

Jane Dor. I will tell you what will melt your vows. 
I have abused you to your back. I have helped your son 
and daughter to get off with Lance. I am knowing to all 
their plans and their abuse of you. I played you off like 
a silly man to get your free permission to Conway and 
Julia. I would not have then thought I would come to 
have regard for you ; but that ends in earnest I began in 
play. Yet I do not repent what I have done, and would 
not ask your pity for a thousand forgivenesses. 

Js. Lee. No, Jane, you have not wronged me as much 



112 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

as I myself. I love you the better for being candid. 
Advice without envy is only a wife's office. A friend has 
the pride of the sex, and an open friend is soonest lost. 
1 want none of the gender to disclose me to myself in 
their crooked glass. They are so cracked, so flawed, so 
seamed, so welted. I would not look in them, but go to a 
woman's face. 

Jane Dor. Now what do you think of Julia? 

Js. Lee. She has a spirit above mine. An angel could 
not censure her. 

Jane Dor. I am glad we two are of a mind. If you 
were not more tender on what you called her faults, I 
would throw you off, like a roof rain. There is a con- 
clusion foreconcluded. Am I a wife already, that I speak 
with the terror of sureness? But I couldnot be happy 
without her back with me. You will make all even where 
you have done her wrong. 

Js. Lee. As quick as I can get to them. You say they 
are with Lance, and he is not to Louisville yet. But 
what a villain ! What a traitor ! What a knave ! How 
will he make an excuse, or look me in the face? 

Enter Martin Lee. 

Ho ! good morning, son. 

M. Lee. It is evening. 

Js. Lee. Morning is easier spoken on the breath of 
surprise. Sure 'tis late. Where is your sister? 

M. Lee. Yes, 'tis a sweet-sounding word, and runs 
well with its yoke fellow good. I am glad to see you 
Jane as a week could make me. 

Jane Dor. How long is a week? 

Js. Lee. Your sister? 

M. Lee. She is well; so is her husband. 

Js. Lee. That is happy. Marriage is a hospital, where 
one should be always nurse to keep up sympathy. Never 
mind. Did you come from the captain? 

M. Lee. No, unless I came from the other world. 

Js. Lee. Has he gone off? Dead? 

M. Lee. Yes. 

Js. Lee. I thought he would not live a year when I last 
saw him. There was a coroner's verdict in his every 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 113 

motion. He has drugged himself more than a dame of 
fashion, and drank more than her man. What was his 
trouble? 

M. Lee. The shortest of all, a knife. 

Js. Lee. He was ever moody. Suicide goes before 
disease. 'Tis only an early winter, and gets a little 
sooner what a later month would take. 

M. Lee. No; flatly, we have murdered him. 

Jane Dor. Oh ! 

Js. Lee. Fie, Jenny. He was deserving, no doubt. 

M. Lee. Yes, truth is always short. He was made a 
villain by nature, but well disguised. He robbed you, 
tlTen laid in with his boatman to murder us, but they 
warned us from the first. He would throw the blame on 
us, and being dead no one could say nay. That is all but 
his death. 

Js. Lee. What a history! He made me mistrust you 
utterly, though I knew him of old. Has he left a will? 

M. Lee. Nothing for lawyers, but all for honest men. 
I have safe what lie has taken from you, and come to 
return it. 

Js. Lee. A trifle, Martin. I thought not at all of it. 
I blame myself ten thousand times for thinking such a 
thing of you. 

M. Lee. A consequence. 

Js. Lee. One better understood than spoken. It 
shall not happen again. But I have tragic news for you. 
Young Buel has been stabbed to death in a raid to take 
the thief Larkin. The church-bell does not ring, but I 
count to hear it toll his years. It is the saddest thing in 
a lifetime. 

31. Lee. How did he come to die? 

Js. Lee. Larkin rammed his knife through him. 

31. Lee. Who said so? 

Js. Lee. I had it from the eye of the sheriff. 

M. Lee. He has a beam in his eye, like the run of his 
kind. He might have told the truth, seeing his part was 
brave enough, but lying is easj' after thinking. No, he 
fell by Lance. 
'Js. Lee. The bloody villain! 

^F. Lee. All of that. One night, when we were moored 



114 COMFORT IN A CORNER. 

at Stoughtou, the sheriff, with Harry and the deputies, 
made a rush from the bank to take the captain alone. 
There was his end. They had, like enough, a suspicion 
that Lance meant us harm, for the sheriff must have 
known his repute. 

Js. Lee All men are liars. I will run another for the 
county and beat the sheriff out. 1 cannot trust such a 
tongue with the juror. He would hang a man for the 
rope. He is so lazy he had rather sit in the steam of a 
court-room than open a window. How can we do God's 
justice without God's air. 

31. Lee. A little more reason, father. He knows too 
much for us to offend him. 

Js. Lee. He's a wedge. 

31. Lee. Look out how you hit him. Let him pry 
others, not us. 

Js. Lee. I will wait till I take him bribing the next 
witness. 

Jane Dor. Can I speak a word among your rabble? 
Where is your sister, and how may she soonest get 
here? 

Js. Lee. I am in a worry to see her, Martin. 

M.Lee. And her husband? 

Js. Lee. They are one. I cannot part what God has 
joined, as some say. 

31. Lee. Well, they are on the boat, not a thousand 
miles from here, and waiting w r ord from me. 

Jane Dor. What's the station? I will line what shall 
call them home like music from fair fingers. 

31. Lee. Send to Louisville explicit. They w T ill look 
after it there. 

Jane Dor. Good-by. {Exit.) 

Js. Lee. I am ruined. Send your wife to every place 
but a telegraph office. She will out-bargain you all but 
there. 

31. Lee. Will you wed her? 

Js. Lee. Have you a suspicion? 

31. Lee. Yes, of all women. 

Js. Lee. She is above it. 

31. Lee. All baser sort. She will make a good mother 
to me. 



COMFORT IN A CORNER. 115 

Js. Lee. And me a good wife, boy. 

M. Lee. Your way will be a bridegroom's, always 
strewn with roses. Oh, rosy ! 

Js. Lee. You do her justice, dear son. May I be blessed 
with many children, and you with brothers. Then will 
you learn the kind art of dividing, when I die. Where 
there are many, not one is selfish. 

.Mil/. Lee. That is a maxim for black birds. But father, 
I doubt you have the strength to beget me relatives at 
your age. I have heard that you were a wild young- 
fellow. 

Js. Lee. A lie, whoe'er monged it. And I spent a 
small part of my virtue in creating you. 

M. Lee. I fear so, indeed. But may you prosper in it. 
I will begone with your leave. 

Js. Lee. Where so fast? 

M. Lee. I have had a fancy I would like to see the 
world before I became one of it. How can I do this but 
by travel? I will go and prepare myself as soon as pos- 
sible after I have said good-day to Jane. 

Js. Lee. There are means enough for you. 

M. Lee. I shall draw at will; and nothing on a pinch. 
Do not be surprised if my notes come in large. (Exit.) 

Js. Lee. He has not^ lost his grudge against me for 
those begging fools I put on to him. Ob ! the memory of 
children is long for evil and short for good. Now I 
wonder how much he will cost me. Let me reckon. No, 
I will not. He's as changeable as the wind. Ten to a 
dozen, he will get so in the habit of going to his bed he 
will forget there is another. (Exit.) 



THE ROGUES' MIRROR. 



THE ROGUES' MIRROR. 



PERSONS OF THE PLAY. 

Judge Ford. Levec. 

Ransom, nephew of Ford. Christopher Keen, Clerk of Law. 

Verrell, ) nnmTiaT1 j ons nf Stephen Wrt, in the hire of Ford. 

Cade, [ r P a "'o"i Catharine, daughter of Ford. 

Ratsey, ) " ' Dame Durrell, an old woman. 

Also Officers, Citizens, Ladies, Host, Friends of Ford, etc. 
"Scene. — Chiefly in village near Portland. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — The garden of Ford's house. 

Enter Judge Ford. 

Ford. Soft ! what a night, so calm and fit for death ! 
I cannot sleep upon it in my chamber, 
The pinched and stifled air so strangles me ; 
But oh, how soft the fingers of the wind 
Do smooth my haggard brow ! If this be night, 
Fly, troubled day, and come, oh shades of death, 
Continual night. 

Enter Catharine. 

Hello, my fancy! 
Speak, ho! who comes so fast? 

Cath . Was it a voice ? 

Ford. Come hither, Kate. 

1 have much noted that of late your eyes 
Run at my heels, like greyhounds, wait upon 
The moments of my solitude, and peep 
Warily into mine ; even as the birds, 

-119 



120 THE ROGUES' MIRROR. 

That dive i' the gusts, and ever and anon, 

Half spread in the falling snow, look timidly 

Upon our fireside comfort through the pane. 

This curio usness sorts not well with the gay season 

And tripping times of youth. It is the wont, 

So I have heard, and know from seeing it, 

Young people run to life as to their meals 

With hearty appetite; but you, forsooth, 

That heretofore was ever on the prick 

Of mischief, early risen as the thrush, 

As early in your bed, running from darkness 

As from a robber, to the arms of sleep, 

Must now rush forth in the unpeopled middle, 

And change-watch of the night. Are you in love, 

And have I for the nonce unheeding walked 

Between the sun and shadow? 

Cath. Nay, father, speak not so. 

Ford. Indeed, 'twere strange. 
I do remember, when the love o'ertook me 
Of your fair mother, I did run away 
Out of the sight of men, for as I thought, 
My love sat like a mask upon my face, 
Not to be pulled apart ; and when a friend 
Smiled for a morning's greeting, I did think 
'Twas laughter at my plight, and all my eyes 
Skulked back into my head for very shame, 
Or fell upon my toes ; then would I jest 
On love, fie npon marriage for a bane, 
And call it a rough officer to take 
Into arrest our slight affections; 
Make practice with my wit at the bald mark 
My silliness did set up. 

Cath. Pray, more of this. 

Ford. Fie, not to-night. These memories are like 
coals, 
No sooner touched but dropped. 

Cath. Are they not happy? 

Ford. Come, come, the night is damp; get you a-bed, 
And let it be made softer with soft prayers 
For them that have it not. There's many a man 
That takes the hazard of the waves to-night, 



THE ROGUES' MIRROR. 121 

Stands in gross need of them ; for I do taste 

A mettle in the air, such as foreruns 

A gale at sea. Now are the fisher-folk 

Up to their knees in surf, whereat their eyes 

May gain upon the night; while we, dear Kate, 

That are but tenants of the day, think not 

How very blessed we are. 

Cath. I had more thought 

You had affected sadness ; scarce a smile 
Has tripped upon your face these many clays, 
But rather melancholy, and your mirth 
Is heavier than your sadness. I can tell 
Some sorrow runs before your every thought, 
And robs it of its health. Why is't that I, 
Who am the familiar of your happiness, 
Not partner of your sorrow? I'm not apt 
In velvet words, or I would tell to you 
How there is but one cell in all my heart, 
And in it you are prisoner, though you still 
Pat me aside with sorry smiles and bid 
Me back to sleep ; and what know I of sleep? 
That oft, unbreathed, listen till the night 
Musters her thickest hours ; for then I hear 
Your slow return and too unsteady feet 
Halting upon the stairs, as if a groan 
Were dropped at every step ; and then I dream 
Too deep for memory. Oh, these hidden ills 
Do bark up all my terrors, which are not few, 
Seeing I am a woman, and have not 
The armor of hard terms to hide them in. 

Ford. Is this curiousness? 

Cath. Nay, father, 'tis love. 

Ford. How do you know 'tis love? 

Cath. How should I know 

That I am flesh and blood, and not a dream, 
Tripping my life in minutes o'er the brain 
Of some love-laboring youth? Why, I have sense, 
Limb, marrow, heat, — some say I have beauty; 
Touch, smell, discretion, and the parts of mind; 
All which make up (whether it is a dream) 
At least what we call life ; so is my love 



122 THE rogues' MIRROR. 

A sense that has no counterface in words, 
Nor in the crafty corners of discourse, 
But is to the heart alone ; and all I have 
I give to you as you gave life to me. 

Ford. Why, my fair advocate, this is well said, 
And is well answered with a confidence. 
'Tis true I have a secret. 

Cath. Tell it me. 

Ford. A secret parted is an open tale, 
But never mind ; it is a sin that bears 
Upon your life, therefore it shall be told ; 
But only for this reason, that it runs 
Into its fifth act, and must soon be known, 
I do surmise, whether I will or no. 

Cath. A sin? 

Ford. Pray, sit you here upon this seat, while I 
Give some directions; for a sudden business, 
On tiptoe at my ear, calls me away 
To Portland ere an hour. Stephen ! Stephen ! 

Cath. What! shall you ride to-night? 

Ford. It must be so. 

Stephen ! Stephen ! 

Enter Stephen. 

Steph. ' Who calls? 

Ford. Stephen ! 

Steph. Is it you, your honor? 

Ford. Have you seen anyone? 

Steph. Not even you, your honor. 

Ford. Well, well, so be it. 

An't please you, get the horse and wagon ready. 
I ride to-night, and needs must hit the stage 
Upon the Portland road. Make haste ! make haste ! 

Steph. Will it not rain to-night? 

Ford. No, it will pour. 

Steph. 'Tis at your honor's liking. {Exit.) 

Ford. Now I'll drive 

Into the story, though it is a tale 
That cries upon my honor. Wheu 'tis finished, 
Let it be cold between us, never mentioned 
Nor booked in the eyes ; I am thus sensitive. 



THE rogues' mirror. 123 

Cath. It shall be so. 

Ford. Well, let it rest. 

Tis easy as the breath to tell a lie, 
But truth is harder parted. Some years ago 
(Out of your memory) I had much note 
In the affairs of state, and as I climbed, 
My eyes climbed higher still. 'Twas natural. 
This is the first ambition of us all, 
(The rest sit at its feet) to push our name 
Into men's faces. So ; all public office 
Is won on wings of gold ; I had it not, 
But twice as rich, had I but reckoned it, 
One faithful friend. He was a merry fellow, 
Trimmed with a native honesty and grace 
That quite upset the painted desperate ills 
We Puritans so love ; and when he shook 
The laughter from his cheeks all nature smiled 
To see so gay a creature. 

Cath. All's well thus far. 

Ford. So all was well till I 

Became the drudge of my ambition, 
And though to see, in the open door of the times, 
A road to office ; but I had no money, 
No money ; 'twas a pity ; had I money, 
Or courage to have ta'en it without stint, 
I should have cleared the breach. Well, well, it chanced 
This friend of mine sat in a place of trust 
Over the federal wealth. — Your eyes, clear Kate, 
Are wonder-wide, and seem to bend their lights 
Backward upon me, like good torch-bearers. 
You know what I would say ; under his name, 
Masking my hand, I somewhat freely dipped 
Into the public moneys, which I thought 
By thrifty use of office to repay. 

Cath. You took the money? 

Ford. I stole the money, 

Spent it, and threw myself, with kneeling thoughts, 
On my friend's mercy. He did never look 
Upon me with reproach, but sorrowfully 
Foretold his ruin. 'Twas a forward truth. 
I know not how it chanced, the public favor 



124 THE rogues' mirror. 

Turned me her back ; it was a bitter fall 
To me, for I had played a smiling game, 
And lost the gambit. But a crueller fate 
Let fly at my poor friend ; he was discovered 
In the default, the lack-wit of his cause, 
Making no face against the proof of crime. 

Cath. And did you not confess? 

Ford. Look, Catharine 

I had a wife that in her dizzy fondness 
Made me her worship, and yourself, dear Kate, 
Was in the clew of life ; but I'll not scarf 
My villainy in that ; I was a coward, 
Which is the basest confession under heaven; 
And in the double standing of my doubts, 
Whether to speak and suffer, or to unload 
My sins upon another ; if 'twere better 
To rot in prisons, or 'scaping the fate, 
To run into the hands of one more dread, 
The rust and mildew of the conscience, 
I did offend the better part, and shut 
My trembling lips upon my trembling secret ; 
Nor did he ope his mouth, nor fasten me 
Into his plight. 

Cath. I will love this man, 

Even in the dust. 

Ford. How know you he is dead? 

Cath. Is it not that you weep for? 

Ford. Kate, you are dull, 

Or have a bitter humor. He fled to France, 
While yet he had provision of his time, 
And in the patriot wars lifted his name 
A head above the others. But the wars 
Are over ; I have note of his return ; 
And in the here and there of idle comment, 
I fear I stand in harm's way of his tongue ; 
Else is he free of passion as a stone, 
And lacks of gall, which once, I do remember, 
He had in quantity ; he was a man 
Of hearty mirth, but in his sober hours 
Not to be ta'en in jest. 

Cath. Will he come hither? 

Ford. Now you hit the adventure 



THE rogues' mirror. 125 

That I have oft played o'er ; for when my wits 

Play me the runaway, I often start 

Up from my pillow in a sweat to think 

He raps upon the door, as his remembrance 

Raps at my breast; for look you, Catharine, 

'Twere- wondrous strange, after this breach of years, 

His love should hold the bent, and if his anger 

Is in the measure that his love has been, 

'Twould waft a snow in summer ; and it needs, 

So his mind take the color, but a word 

To prick my high-blown pride, and bring my fortunes 

About my feet. But soft! I hear the wheels, 

A fair good-night, love ; I shall straight to Portland, 

And slyly put inquiry on foot, 

That shall confound my fears, or at the least 

Give them proportion. But for you, dear Kate, 

Thiuk not the less of me for what you know, 

But rather judge by love that you know all. 

lie-enter Stephen. 

Steph. Sir, the wagon's ready. 

Ford. So am I. 

A good-night, Kate ; I have a fire within 
Will fence me from the cold ; let us be speedy. 

{Exeunt.) 

Scene II. — A room in ForcVs house. 

Enter Catharine and Two Ladies. 

First Lady. If anyone should say to me, I saw Apollo 
riding by Newport strand, I would outface him for a 
peddler of tales ; for indeed we saw him as we came 
hither, in the full smack of his godship. If there were 
not uine graces with him there were something less than 
nine, all smiling like good reflectors; and his godship's 
self was smiling over his finger tips, perched fore-front 
in the lap of — plenty; Lord, Lord, and left nothing but 
dust. To be short, Kate, we saw your cousin playing the 
runaway with a bee-hive of young women, that stung 
him into laughter twenty times and again. Fie on his 



126 THE rogues' mirror. 

courtesy, and lie wagged his head at us, thus and thus, 
as he passed. What is this cousin of yours, Kate, that 
people so talk about? 

Cath. An indifferent good cousin. 

Second Lady. So will he say of you when I tell him 
how scanty your praise was. A little more would have 
been more cousinly. 

Cath. And a little less would have been more truth- 
ful. 

First Lady. You will trim him down to a vagabond in 
another piece-meal or two. Indeed, the townsfolk say 
that is his figure, a million and odd for deviltry, and a 
cipher for virtue. But I care not for that, save the envy 
of it. There is not a two-footed innocent in the town 
(bating the sex) since the gown (that's your father, 
Kate,) sentenced madcap Verrell for a peccadillo. Find 
me, and you cannot, a man of them all that is not a 
Anger-mark for the community ; and a great rogue is no 
blacker in my eyes than a little rouge ; each proceeds on 
inclination, not capacity. But they say your cousin hath 
a black pitch about him that sticks all rascals into a 
lump, and he is the life of it. Pshaw! Kate, you shall 
give me a passport to his acquaintance. What was his 
hailing-place? 

Cath. Is it possible the townspeople have not told 
you? 

First Lady. Is he not direct from Germany? 

Cath. Yes, from the academies. He studied there 
two years, aiming to be doctor of physic, and came away 
by a good chance with all he knew before. There were 
some sufficient properties fell to him when his father 
died, and he inherited much good advice by his uncle's 
will. The properties are in law and the advice is in 
parchment. If either escape their prison, heaven help 
my cousin that he use them well. But I know not. He 
would do well. I think, to stick to his pestle and galli- 
pots. 

Second Lady. Would have done well? Why? 

Cath. He has the perfect parts of a good sheepskin 
doctor. In these days, if a goose but quack, people come 
running to be cured. 



THE rogues' mirror. 127 

Second Lady. By my faith, you have as bitter humor 
as a Scotch bag-pipe; a very bag of sourness. 

Cath. I do not pipe well to all touching. 

First Lady. They say he's witty, too; much keener 
than plain country folk, so that he keeps the cock of his 
wit down out of safety to people. Well, you are in good 
fortune that sit so near the fire; I am sure all else here- 
about is only smoke. 

Cath. Why, 'tis thus : his humor has some flavor to a 
starved wit, like dry bread to a beggar, but no relish for 
a full one. 

First Lady. Oh ! then 'tis hearty victual. But indeed 
I thought you had affected him, Kate; nay, 1 did not, 
but truth and falsehood go at a flight in gossip. I know 
you well; you will mate with a mild-mannered man, and 
your cousin, by all telling, was a great vaunter and 
challenger in the academies ; calls for hilts in a quarrel, 
and quite outfaces the town with his boldness. 

Cath. Why, for that matter, his red eye cries out in 
the distance, so ferocious, twenty paces and — swords. 

First Lady Well thrust — again ! 

Enter Ransom. 

Ban. Fair play, cousin. 

Cath. What brought you hither? 

Ban. An ill wind ; but, i' faith, I am very lucky to fall 
among so many, indeed, so many — 

Cath. Well, what? 

Ran. Roses, by the breath. 

Second Lady. You are more hurt in the thorns, sir, 
than you think. Your cousin and my friend here have 
disputed over you these two hours by the clock, but only 
as vultures, which should feed upon you most. 

Ban. Why, then, I shall go the whole course over 
again. Disputes are the sweetmeats of discourse; they 
sicken, but purge. Now, I will call myself villain — 

Cath. What, conscience-struck? 

Ban. And then all the world, cousin, will be at odds 
with me; so if I hang myself in a halter of tough words, 
you shall cut me clown with your good opinions. They 
say of the Dutch skippers that they have more wine in 



128 the rogues' mirror. 

their lockers than wind in their sails ; so that they never 
reac-h a port but they go by it ; as if nature had pitched 
about to keep Dutchmen always at sea. Tis in this 
fashion the world weighs men, either over or under. 
For my part, I am underweighed. I have more worth 
than I ever told of ; more fire in the pan — 

Second Lady. This is not your cue, sir. 

Cath. Why, my cousin has crammed so many wild 
boasts into his memory, one must needs fly out if he but 
ope his mouth to sneeze. Pray you, forgive him. 

Ban. 'Tis sweet to be forgiven; and as I wish you 
nothing but sweetness, I will repay it upon you. 

{Music ivithout.) 

First Lady. Hark ! I hear music in the corridor. 

Ban. 'Tis Christopher Keen. Be quiet, he will not see 



us. 

Keen. 



Enter Keen, singing and playing. 

A raven all so prickle plumed 

Sat on the limb of a tree; 
And all the day changed into night, 
So funeral croaked she. 

Ban. Well sung, Christopher. 

Keen. Now God bless my fortune, I have not walked 
into the river bottom ; God bless my fortune. I beg your 
pardon, ladies. My senses were wrapped up in sweet 
music. I will be gone directly. 

Cath. Nay, this is no interference. We are strangely 
counted here, and one other neither mends nor mars, for 
there will still be one more to talk than to listen. I knew 
not you could sing. 

Keen. I am something expert. Indeed, I play and sing 
very finely. 

First Lady. I never heard a better. 

Ban. Faith, you outclap the Turks. He did but tune 
himself. When he has well unsaddled his tones, I will 
wager my right hand to my left he shall sing you a song 
as if 'twere shaked from seventy tubes. He has a mar- 
velous gong and a good discretion ; for all his notes were 
gotten out of the hand of nature, all as his straying flocks 
he fed. And there's disaster; for he had rather lose 
a sheep than a stave, which was arm's-length from his 



THE rogues' mirror. 129 

father's sense of property. So is he become clerk of law, 
to put music into the debtor's oath. You shall sing for 
us, Christopher. 

Cath. There shall be no excuse. How can we spend 
our ears better? 

Keen. So be it; a passion song? 

Second Lady. Yes, yes. 

First Lady. Ay, that's it. 

Ban. Oh, now you stick daggers in me. Did it not 
smell too much of arrogance and assumption I would give 
you much crafty advice. Nay, I care not for the smell 
o't. Hark you, friend Christopher, steer a free course 
from all these herring craft of poetry, all short-stepping 
verses, pit-a-patter rhymes, musty sonnets, spavined hex- 
ameters, and the like new kinds of prose. Of those great 
poets that sprinkle their tears over a little world, I say 
nothing. May God help them to better quarters. And I 
say nothing of those pets and kittens of fashion who so 
hug their verses that the lines blush for shame m the 
eyes of all the world. Mark you, I say nothing of these 
nor of other, but may heaven make you pregnant of this 
wisdom that you deliver us a simple household ditty, such 
as were sung before people became eloquent. Now, sir, 
stand to it. 

Cath. Pray, are you done? 

.Ban. Not if you would have me say more. 

Cath. Now God forbid. But look how I shall put you 
down with plain honesty. Tis three to one, Christopher, 
that you sing us a love ballad. 

Ban. Faugh ! 

Keen. As ladies wish, Ransom. I have in my memory 
a song which has a clear title to your favor. It is called 
The Soldier's Lament. 

Ban. Look how my flesh weeps in sympathy. 

Cath. Let us have this song before any other. 

Keen. So sets the wind, ha! (Plays and sings.) 

Where is my laddie gone ? 

Where is my laddie gone ? 
Robin the rogue is in the marsh, 
And with his thorns and creepers harsh 

His tender flesh has torn. 



130 THE rogues' mirror. 

Where is ray laddie gone ? 

Where is my laddie gone ? 
The lark and chat are whistling shrill, 
And the flag of the sun upon the hill 

Leads on another morn. 

Where is my laddie gone ? 

Where is my laddie gone ? — 
I hear her in my midmost sleep, 
And ever I wake and vigil keep, 

And wish the morrow morn. 

Ban. Now for the chorus. 

Keen. Tis complete; there is no chorus. 

Ban. Oh, what a carpet song is this, to be hung in 
mid air without a chorus ! 

First Lady. A good song, and well delivered. 

Ban. There are worse, there are worse ; but had any 
other made such a pass at my discretion, I would have 
unsheathed my wit for my honor's sake. 

First Lady. Oh, then, I warrant I should have been 
slaughtered. 'Tis said men tight best for what they have 
not. 

Ban. What! no honor? 

First Lady. Indeed, sir, I can see none. 

Ban. Why, this is levity ; as if you should say honor 
is to be taken in the hand, and looked at ; for all the qual- 
ities are freeholders, and but one keeps open doors, as 
you may see; thus, admiration lives in the eyes, and is 
partial; love lives in the lips, and is volatile; veneration 
lives in the ear, and is crafty ; but honor has a throne — 

First Lady. Pah ! this is sentiment. 

Ban. But honor has a throne in the pocket, and is 
yellow. If that is sentiment, take it for a medicine. 

Second Lady. You should have more honor, then, than 
the general. 

Ban. Look how my hand runs through my pocket 
without clinking even honor's penny. (Pulls out a 
paper.) Ho! what's here? Beshrew me, I had forgot 
what called me hither. Here's a note, cousin, that has 
your name running over it at a villainous slouching gait. 
A vile hand, a vile hand ; I found it in the garden, but the 
inditor alone knows where it was bred ; for it had mar- 



THE ROGUES' MIRROR. 131 

ried the north wind so merry, and was setting the fashion 
to runaways. Here it is, cousin. 

Gath. If it be not some trick or trap, I thauk you. 

Enter Stephen. 

What is it, Stephen? 

Steph. The ladies are waited for. 

First Lady. We must be gone speedily. Good-morrow, 
sirs. 

Keen. Your wishing shall be warranty of it. 

Ban. Oh, happy Christopher ! 

{Exeunt Ladies and Catharine.) 

Steph. I would tell you, too, Christopher, the bell is 
rung. 

Keen. The bell rung? Bless me, I must straight to 
prayers! (Exit.) 

Han. Oh, the villain! He is flown after his victual. 

Steph. I care not. He ordered me to warn him by the 
clock. 

Man. I doubt it not, I doubt it not. 

Steph. Am I victual, too, that you feed vour eyes on 
me? 

Ban. I doubt it not, Stephen. 

Steph. Are you gone mad, sir? 

Ban. I did but look on you; I never saw the like 
before. 

Steph. Why, I am only plain Stephen Wry. 

Ban. So thou art plain, Stephen. Tell me, why did 
nature make so great a nose to stand sentinel over so 
small a mouth? If she had gone to arm's-length after 
the making, you had not come into the world at all, or 
else come better furnished. But nature's a blind bitch, 
and gets blind children. 

Steph. Well, I cannot help it. 

Ban. Was your father of this handicraft? 

Steph. He was very much as I am. 

Ban. This father of yours was a knave, Stephen; so 
were all your ancestors. Had they but married women 
of good wide mouths, such as are sometimes seen, their 
chilclrens' would have been of happy proportions. 

Steph. Why, so they did, sir, and got great noses 
instead. 



132 THE rogues' mirror. 

Ban. You lie ; they did not do it ; but you are the very 
man for the business. I have in my mind's eye a lass of 
forty or thereabout — 

Steph. Believe me, I shall never marry. 

Ban. Marry, why not? 

Steph. Oh ! sir, I have not that cunning in me that 
sways the love of the sex. My heart is as naked as 
water, so that all who run know me to be simple Stephen 
Wry, son of Solomon Wry, that was. I shall live all my 
life a bachelor, and die of my woes. Faith, I was thrust 
out into the world union down, to be the sorrowfulest 
of men. Good-by, Ransom; I have a hint in my throat 
that I shall weep presently. God prosper what he will. 

{Exit.) 

Ban. So, so, so. But here comes Kate deep in the 
dumps. 

Enter Catharine, reading the scroll. 

Well, cousin, have you dismissed that rubbish? 

Oath. Yes, and found more. Listen to this : (Beads.) 

I am the will-o'-the-wisp, 

With wary wing and crisp ; 

When the ploughman's work is done, 

And the worm winds her cocoon. 

And out peers the visored moon : — 

When the fleece of stars is bright, 

And the glow-worm spends her light. 

And the owl's in weary plight, 

Then do I come by night. 

Ransom, thy love- 
Ban. Why, that is very good. I have not seen its 
like in a twelvemonth. 

Cath. Is it not your handwriting? 
Ban. I plead guilty to it. 

Cath. Art not ashamed? "• 

Ban. There can be no shame to a pleader. 
Cath. Truly I think so. What is the meaning of this 
rhyme? 

Ban. Shortly spoke, Will you ride with me to-night? 
Cath. Shortly answered, I will not. 



THE rogues' mirror. 133 

Ban. Why, you are shorter than I am. But 'tis 
dinner-time; let us take care of the hour, and let the 
next be master of itself. Tis certain love is sweetest 
on a full stomach. (Exeunt.) 

Scene III. — A street in Portland; citizens passing. 
Enter Levec. 

Levee. Pray, sir, where will this street lead me? 

Git. To the shipping. 

Levec. 'Tis very roundabout, is it not? 

Cit. No, sir; very direct. 

Levec. I should have thought the foxes had made it. 

Cit. I see, sir, you are a foreigner. (Exit.) 

Levec. Is't possible the fashion of the dress 
Fashions the value of a man, even here? 
I had not thought my native countrymen 
Were of that blabbing kind that change their natures 
As often as their coats. We see abroad 
How each man is a beggar 'fore the world 
For tags of merit. Where men varnish o'er 
With costly dressing they do but acknowledge 
That there are flaws to cover; but there's one, 
I am very sure, even in this falling age, 
Stands upright on his virtue. Here I'll wait 
Upon the flagging till he passes by ; 
For every day, so I am told, he walks 
Upon the quays, and watches 'neath his hand 
The nation's living barter. 'Tis most strange 
My haunted eyes have not yet gazed upon him ; 
Yet I half fear to gaze, as one who flies 
And o'er his shoulder looks. He's prosperous, 
So I am told, and bears his feather well 
Among his crowing brothers ; yet I think 
He is by nature kind, and in his heart 
Undressed before his friends. But if the frown 
Of hell-bred arrogance and contemptuousness 
Hangs on his cheek, and like an officer, 
Seems to arrest the world and call it dog, 
I'll give his infamy to the bitter world, 



134 THE rogues' mirror. 

Though it should break my heart, and theu I'll sit 

To the swift painter, for a cast of grief 

Shall set the world in tears. No, no, my heart, 

Thou canst not hold this stiff and wiry purpose ; 

Better to be forgotten than forget, 

And he was once the dearest friend that heaven 

In labor with the earth did e'er beget ; 

Though in the wit of truth his qualities 

Were mixed with an uneven hand, as God 

Is said to mix his earthly pensioners. 

But soft ! he comes. Oh ! what a sadness droops 

Before him, that he seems to walk o'ercast 

Under the shadow. 

Enter Judge Ford and Two Friends. 

First Friend. I am sorry you must part for home so 
soon; 
The season's on its flight, the glass goes round, 
And merriment's a-tiptoe. 

Ford. My age is my excuse ; 

But if you ever sicken, and turn your backs 
Upon the idle frolic of the time, 
Pray visit me and we will try a hand 
Which is the hardier in our country sports, 
You, that have swollen your time with balls and feasts, 
Where eyes are fuel to the wine, or I, 
In the frugality — (Levec passes Ford and exit.) 

Second Friend. What is it? 

Ford. Who was it snatched my hand? 

Cit. He went yonder that touched you. 

Second Friend. Tut, a beggar. 

First Friend. Look to your wallet, Ford; these gutter 
sparrows 
Have Augers light as snow. What ! are you pale? 

Ford. It is my native color. Let us make haste 
To shake these by-ways from us. If I tremble, 
Think nothing of it; 'tis a fault of nature 
That flutters in my limbs. Come, faster, faster. 

First Friend. This is most strange. (Exeunt.) 



THE rogues' mirror. 135 

Scene IV. — The garden of Ford's house. 
Enter Ransom and Catharine. 

Cath. Oh ! you pelt me with love. 

Ban. So will I, Kate, 

Until you take the game of kindness up, 
And pay me back what I, so prodigal 
Of all I am possessed, have given thee. 
Nay, I'm possessed of it, for love will not, 
Like smiling virtues, coil upon the cheek 
At every will and beck ; it stamps its form 
Upon the heart, and stiffens with rebuke. 
The nations had it that were barbarous, 
Ere letters watered knowledge, and I thiuk 
Warm-blooded beasts and creatures of the field 
Most like to men in this. There's not a bird 
That swingeth in the hammock of the air 
But hath some carol or some matin sweet, 
And even the rock-reared whip-poor-will his song. 
All this is love, and all the world is love 
Save you alone, that, like the stony flint, 
Are in yourself most cold, but at a touch 
Set others in a very fire of love. 

Catli. Now are you merry. 

Ban. Nay, I am very sober. 

Cath. If you did love me, sure your words would taste 
More of a homeliness and simple sort, 
Partaking of the state ; for I have noted 
How men who are deceivers and who sow 
Their vows in every ear, do most conceal 
Their fang in ecstasy ; of many loves 
Ne'er getting once a wife, but o'er the point 
Just stepping like a hero carved in stone, 
That never downs the foot; they make a pause, 
And of the pause a flight; but men whose love 
Is seated in their heart to marriage go, 
With steepdown visages and sober thoughts. 
Holding their vow the very stitch o' the life. 

Ban. Why, so I do. 

Cath. Then is your life as full 

Of stitches as vour coat. 



136 THE rogues' mirror . 

Ban. Why clo you put 

This show of disaffection upon me? 
I am sure I am no weak and dribbling lover, 
Just over shoes in passion and no more. 

Cath. And I am sure, dear cousin (for such you are), 
You will not rate my love of that cheap kind 
That hangs upon the sleeve of every suitor 
Like a canary on a showman's thumb, 
And taught to sing 
To every fancy that comes wandering by. 

Ban. But I love you — 

Cath. Soft! Who comes? 

Enter Levec. 

Sir, what would you have? 

Ban. Away, you beggar! 

Levec. Your pardon, friends ; 'tis dark, and all my 
eyes 
Were inward with my thoughts. 

Ban. I'll choose my friends in the light. What do 
you want? 

Levec. A softer speech, young man. 

Ban. Come, come, you knave, 

Get to your gutter ! 

Levec. How now, you stripling ! 

By heaven, if it were other than a boy 
That put such speech upon me — 

Cath. Bray you, no quarrel. 

Levec. No quarrel? Why, a man is but a flint, 
And being struck, there is no stuff in nature 
Can hold the spark. 

Ban. Out of the grounds, I say ! 

Levec. Nay, I shall pass. 

Ban. Look to it, I have a knife. 

Cath. Help ! help ! 

Levec. Now by the seven stars, I never thought 
To tickle straws with babes. I am unarmed. 
Yet with a turn of wrist I've played the death 
On many a greater Mars. 

Cath. Help ! 



THE rogues' mirror. 137 

Enter Judge Ford. 

Ford. What brawl is this? 

Ban. Why, this dog of a beggar 

Comes sneaking — 

Ford. A dagger, nephew? 

Out of my sight ! You are no blood of mine, 
You dastard ! 

Cath. You are unjust. 

Ford. What, I unjust ! 

Learn veneration, daughter. Sir, who are you? 

Levee. Judge Ford, clo you not know me? 

Ford. I never saw you, sir. 

Levee. Why, it should be upon your title-leaf 
Of memory who I am. {Exit Ransom.) 

Ford. I never saw you; 

But you shall have my ear for auy business 
You would impart. Here, Catharine, run back 
Into the house, for we must speak alone. 

Levee. A moment, stay ! I owe apology 
To you, good lady. There are times when temper 
Takes fiery weapons, and discretion 
Goes halting off; know that I am a soldier, 
And my rough trade imparts rough usages, 
And sways the kindly balance of the mind 
Into some frostiness, when smiles should season. 
So, under this prologue, give me pardon. 

Cath. It needs it not, sir, for the genial play 
Sweeps on beneath the curtain of your brow. 
Indeed, I think my cousin more at fault 
In this misventure, which is lightly past; 
But his excuse lies that his blood is swift, 
And in a fit jumps civil ceremony. 
He has a better nature that he turns 
To his own conning ; by a freak of birthing 
His dross is o'er his gold. 

Levee. I fear your cousin's 

Less perfect than his glass. 

Ford. Will you begone? {Exit Catharine.) 

I pray you, lift your cap ; I cannot see you. 
Levee. Be it so ; you know me now. 



138 THE rogues' mirror. 

Ford. If I believe 

My senses on this edge of night, you are 
That friend Levee. Why ! let me look upon you. 

Levee. Is this all that you have for me? 

Ford. By grace, 

Am I forgiven? 

Levee. By grace you were, ere you had injured me. 
Though I have taken on a beggar's garb, 
My heart it is no beggar. 

Ford. Spare the word. 

I think a trodden and word-beaten pauper 
Were better worth than I. It is a wonder 
Fit to be set beside the miracles, 
How you can hold my hand and call me friend, 
That dealt so foully with you. 

Levee. Let it lie, 

And give me leave to look upon your face. 
The very same ; by heaven, the years have slipped 
And left you nothing worse. 

Ford. Were I not better, 

I were a knave indeed. 

Levee. Still on that string? 

Ford. My thoughts go to the tune. Why do you look 
So fixed on me? Your eyes like swallows sit 
Under their eaves, and seem to peer upon me 
Like to a gambler bending o'er his cast. 

Levee. You are the very same, the very same, 
Save that your hairs are thinner. 

Ford. There is a moral 

That wisdom builds her nest in scanty locks, 
And shuns the curly head. 

Levee. It is a saying 

That springeth chiefer from the branch of custom 
Than from the root of truth. In tender years, 
When we are nature's children, nature's law 
Shows perfectest ; but in maturity 
Men get their head and plunge what way they will, 
Grow cunning, haughty, proud, and stretch the lines. 
Youth knows no boundary 'twixt himself and others. 
But manhood climbs upon his fellow's shoulder, 
And crows to see himself. These petty spirits 



THE rogues' mirror. 139 

Grow iii false soil ; 'tis not in nature writ 
That one should be the ass and one the load. 

Ford. No ; both are asses. 

Levee. Has the world prospered with you? 

Ford. Even as you see; these lands round here are 
mine, 
Enough besides to keep me from the wet 
These many years. 

Levee. Now you make me unhappy. 

In truth, I'm hurt not to be needed by you. 

Ford. That's a fine wish. And have you been in 
France? 

Levee. Yes; slitting wind-pipes; I can swear in 
French, 
And fight in English. Well, the wars are done, 
And by the leeway of a dozen years, 
Though I made not a sail unto that end, 
I am grown something rich ; firstly, in oaths ; 
Second, in wounds; and third, in worldly wealth. 

Ford. The last is modest. 

Levee. As you may say, it is. 

Our fortunes meet us in the dark. 

Ford. And now 

Do you not find yourself disposed to ease? 
Nay, do not answer. You shall live here with me. 
I am a judge, sir, and I give this sentence : 
You make my house a prison twenty years. 
I am your goaler ; come away with me, 
And see how prettily I play the host. 

Levee. You are a. judge, a goaler, and a host? 
Well, I will stay a little time with you, 
And then be off. 

Ford. Now by my hand and heart 

It shall not be. Come, come, I see your promise 
Wavering in your face. 

Levee. I thank you, Ford. 

Ford. Tut, never mind. Come with me through the 
garden. 
Spring has begun her grafting on the trees ; 
Mine is the fairest orchard in the state, 
And now I have an ear to brag into. {Exeunt.) 



140 THE rogues' mirror. 

ACT II. 

Scene I. — A hall in Ford's house- 
Enter Ransom and Stephen. 

Ban. Stephen, a word with you. 

Steph. You may have two if you wish it. 

Ban. I thank you, Stephen; you shall be my treasury; 
I mean, of words. I have been rubbing my wits to make 
them bright, and now I am come to tell you a secret. 

Steph. O Lord, neA^er do that. 

Ban. Indeed I shall, or the birds will tell it to you; 
for this secret is in the air, in the earth, in the water, and 
lastly, in the man's face that keeps it. To come short on 
the enemy, have you noted well this master Levee? 

Steph. Very well, very well indeed. 

Ban. How does the gloss of new acquaintance wear? 
Is it gold or sodden stuff? 

Steph. I have no touchstone for such metal, Ransom. 
He is the heart and amidships of all honor. 

Ban. O Stephen, the world is voung and knaves are 
old. 

Steph. So the devil saith. 

Ban. What else did he say? 

Steph. The devil? 

Ban. Yes, Levee. 

Steph. Hist ! here he comes. 

Enter Catharine and Levec, passing through. 

Ban. I will swear, old proverbs fit new times. Stand 
back; they are lost in each other's eyes, and will never 
see us. 

Cath. Oh fie, sir, never think so ill of me; 
I am not one of those that run about, 
Making their ears a sieve for idle talk. 
Where do you think, sir, I have been this morning? 

Levec. I know not; but 'tis said, maidens like lilies 
Hang ever o'er their glass. 

Cath. A face-maker ! 

I fear you hold me lightly when you say 
I gossip and make faces in a glass. 



THE ROGUES' MIRROR. 141 

Levee. F-faith, I did not say it. 

Cath. Nay, but you did. 

Levee. I cry you mercy; you are what you are, 
And no one, I am sure, could wish you else. 

Cath. You twist my meanings. 

Levee. If I twist them 

Into love-knots, who is the worse for it? 

Cath. To beg your pardon, sir, your speech is nothing. 
If you will come with me into the garden, 
I'll gladly try your eyes if they be better. 

Levee. And I will gladly follow ; but indeed 
I wish my eyes more fortune than my tongue. 

{Exeunt Catharine and Levec.) 

Ban. Did you mark that? 

Steph. It is but old news. I have noted it many clays 
that they walk about, as you may say, lodged iu one 
another. It is old news, I assure you, very old news. 

Ban. And did you know it? 

Steph. These seven weeks. 

Ban. By the stars I will buy me a pistol this day to 
shoot thoughts through my brain. Why, this is the very 
secret I came to tell you. 

Steph. The Lord forbid. Do you think they are in 
love? 

Ban. Up to the knee, that is certain. Is it not mon- 
strous? I am crammed full of rage; I am murderous- 
minded. 

Steph. He is a very good man, I think. 

Ban. A good man ! He is the vilest villain on earth. 
His father was a villain, his grandfather was a villain, 
his great-grandfather was a villain, and his quaintest 
ancestors were villains all, whieh pulls at the roots of 
creation. So, all told, he is three times and again a vil- 
lain, a coxcomb, a muck-worm, a dung-hill louse, a toad, 
a spider, a snake — 

Steph. You mean, anything that crawls. 

Ban. Will you do me a service, Stephen? 

Steph. If it be a thing of honor. 

Ban. Tut, 'tis only a penny of kindness that I ask. 

Steph. I would it were more, Ransom. 

Ban. It lies not in quantity, but it is, as you may say, a 



142 THE rogues' mirror. 

tickle point. I cannot unclose it to others hereabout, whose 
tongues are all set with hair-springs ; but I know you to 
be very close and crabbed of the most appetizing secrets. 
Shortly, this Levee has a damned enterprise on foot to 
smuggle his affections on my Cousin Kate, as you have 
seen; but I will pull strongly against him, trust me for 
that; and you shall be my ladder to that end. 

Steph. If you nurse any plot, Ransom, keep it in your 
own breast; I will have none of it. To plot, I take it, is 
to contrive; and to contrive is a great wickedness, and 
against the law. 

Man. Stephen, you are right; and now Levee con- 
trives an odious attachment with my cousin. He has 
committed assault and battery on her affections, which is 
a jailing offence; if you do not believe it, ask that brat 
of law, Christopher Keen. 

Steph. If it is so, proceed. 

Man. Then tell me, does my cousin return his favors? 

Steph. I may say so, in part. 

Man. They contrive to meet here and there, do they 
not? 

Steph. In neither place, I think 5 but chiefly in the 
garden. 

Man. And are you not under the bush of their favor 
at these times? I mean, they suspect you not. 

Steph. Where would you bring me? 

Man. To a good inference. If you were of a mind, 
might you not deliver to me the speeches they drop in 
your hearing. 

Steph. Would you make me a tale-bearer? 

Man. Why, that's a monkey. I would have you but 
what you are, believe me, only what you are. Hark ! was 
it not a pebble that struck the shutter? 

Steph. I heard nothing. 

Man. Is no one beneath the window? 

Steph. It is Cade the giant. Have a care of yourself, 
Ransom ; he is flinging a boulder as big as his head. 

San. But not as thick. Devil take him, he will 
break the house down. 

Steph. I will stop him before he flings another. 

Man. Send him hither, if you can. I will speak more 



THE rogues' mirror. 143 

with you hereafter concerning this matter; believe me, 

I will make it smooth to you. {Exit Stephen.) 

Who would have thought it? Why I am as blind 

As any snow-man that the children build, 

Who has a black coal stuck each side his nose 

To be his eyes. My cousin and this fellow ! 

The devil speed him ! For a dozen weeks 

I've stretched my neck to smell their secrecy, 

And never till this morning did I find 

The tangle out. I have played eavesdropper 

Under her window, and the little jade 

Sang only spinster songs ; I've crossed her steps 

A hundred times, as she has walked alone, 

And nothing got by it until this day. 

By heaven, my uncle Ford shall know of this, 

But first I will have proof ; I will rise early 

To-morrow morn, and every other morn ; 

So on, until I find some catch or clue. 

'Tis a great punishment to crawl from bed 

So early, but I'll patch my sleep at noonday. 

Enter Cade. 

Cade. Blessings on you, Ransom. 

Ban. What's in the air? 

Cade. Nothing but holy stars. 

Ban. Where have you left 

The other two? Why are they not abroad? 

Cade. Pray, have you money? 

Ban. Have I money? 

Cade. Yes. 

Ban. Oh what a knave you are ! Let me tell o'er 
How many times this week some puffing fellow 
Has pulled me by the coat, quoth-a, good friend 
Wilt pay the money that you owe in debt? 
The inn-keeper, the goodsman, and the tailor, 
The fruiterer, and a thousand other fry, 
Till like a vessel rocked in adverse tides 
I stick and stay — why, should I tell all this 
Word in and out, the day would all be spent 
And in a cry for candles. 



144 THE rogues' mirror. 

Cade. But have you not 

Some sums in haud? 

Ban. Go to, you villain, 

You never meet me in the open street, 
But that your tongue, that's dripping with good wishes, 
To beggary falls at length, like a night prayer 
Almost forgot and then spoke trippingly. 
Now to be understood and understanding, 
If this is all your errand, these few words 
Are all my answer, that I have no money 
And never shall; but when I have't, methinks 
You shall have none of it. 

Cade. No money, say you? 

Ban. No, not a penny; my extravagance 
Has quit my purse, emptied it, aired it, drained it, 
Or, if you'd rather, sucked the marrow of it; 
And for the future, 'tis a double star 
That marches o'er my heaven ; I read it clear 
That I must steal or beg. Where's Ratsey? where's 
Verrell? 

Cade. Deep in the dumps ; indeed, they sent me hither 
To fill my bag with money. 

Ban. Oh damnable bee ! 

Cade. But since you have it not I'll make return 
Into the tavern ; but the master of it 
He has a doting proverb that cold coin 
Is better than warm wishes, and denies 
Even the beggar's salt, until he has, 
Most miserable wretch! the pay in haud. 
You are sure you have no money? 

Ban. My purse hath a great mouth and little paunch, 
And nothing in 't. 

Cade. Good-by, Ransom. 

Ban. Oh what a hurry I 

As if you were the golden sentinel 
That summons up the hours. You were not thus 
A moment since. Have you no plans in store? 

Cade. Not a pennyworth. 

Ban. Why then, to-morrow night, 

What time the jarring bird begins to drop 



THE rogues' mirror. 145 

His courtesies in the air, meet me in the wood 
That is our trystiiig place, (you know it well, 
Southward the church) and there we'll mix our wits 
As choicest liquors are ; but for 4:he present 
Part this amount between you. (Gives him money.) 

Cade. What! have you money? 

Ban. Ay, bushels of it. (Exeunt.) 



Scp:ne II. — Before Ford's house. 

Ransom, alone. 

Ban. The sun has shot an arrow o'er the hill ; 
Morning is up, and (curse it) so am I. 
Here have I watched and waited o'er this spot, 
And paced about it like a minute hand 
E'en since the turn of night ; and all for what ! 
Two hours are lost; the fellow is not come, 
And with a cough as hollow as a bell, — 
Ay, there it goes. — But stay! 
What footing yonder comes? The fox is late. 
But blessings on the hour; here will I hide. 
My twenty eyes under the hawthorn-bush. 

(Conceals himself.) 
Enter Christopher Keen and Levec. 

Keen. Is this the place? 

Levec. I hold myself much your debtor for this kind- 
ness. And I will requite it as I may. But to the 
business. Stand you here in the shadow and sing me the 
song I chose out for you, or choose a better yourself. 
But make dispatch, and I will hold you my friend forever, 
truly, my friend forever. 

Keen. 'Tis nothing ; I love to sing. But for the music, 
shall it be merry or wise? 

Levec. Faith, let it be both merry and wise ; for merri- 
ment of itself is nine parts folly; yet if wisdom be 
dressed in black she is little regarded. Let me have both 
in one, and that speedily. 



146 



THE ROGUES MIRROR. 



Keen. I'll do it to the touch. (Sings.) 

Who is this with eyes so blue ? 

Sing ho ! so merrily. 
And cheeks that let their blushes through ? 
• Sing it all so merrily. 

By the witches there are two; 

Sing ho! so merrily. 
His eyes so grey and hers so blue ; 

Take it naught but merrily. 

By the hay-cocks, in the night, 

This twain so merrily ; 
Gentle people, take no spite 

That the world goes merrily. 



Levee. I am not native to that air; it was born in my 
absence. But I thank you for it. 
Keen. You are critical. Shall I to it again? 
Levee. If you are speedy. 

Keen. This song shall be for an antidote to the other. 

{Sings.) 

When winter waves the rushes, O, 

And the huskere weave the corn, 

And farmer lads their fingers blow, 

Think on me, my lady lorn. 

1 did sorry fortune wed ; 

Fortune laid me here abed ; 

At my feet a tumbled stone, 

And over it my letters strown. 

When that the spring her violet eyes 
Opens, and makes holiday ; 
And all so green my burial lies, 
Think on me, and blight the May. 
I did sorry fortune wed, etc. 

Levee. Enough — 'twill do. 

Keen. Was it not in the mood? 

Levee. Something too merry. All the world could not 
please me to-night. Now for a last favor, return to your 
room and speak never a word of this to any man. 

Keen. I am at your mercy. (Exit.) 



THE rogues' mirror. 147 

Enter Catharine, at the window above. 

Cath. Sure, it is he. Is anyone beneath? 

Levee. None but myself. 

Cath. Was't you that sung? 

Levee. Tush, do not thank me for it. 

Cath. Indeed I shall. 

Who has but little to be thankful for, 
Gives double thanks for that. Fie, what a night ! 
I think 'twill rain anon. Know you the time? 

Levee. Near upon three. 

Cath. Why, you are early risen ; 

And for myself, I have twice waked to-night, 
Troubled with something. Faith, I cannot tell 
If I have anything to trouble me. 
It is not well, I think, to have one's life 
So early wedded to security. 
'Tis as a ship, all fitted up for war, 
That never stirs from port, is such a life, 
So idle one might paint it. There's the trouble 
That wakes me nights. 

Levee. As, truth, it is not mine. 

Cath. And what is yours? 

Levee. Yourself. 

Cath. Myself? 

Levee. Are you not cause? 

Cath. Why, sir, I never thought 

To be the thorn in any person's mind. 
Pray, what's the fault? Where do I misbecome 
The nature that I serve? 

Levee. In nothing, sure, 

And that's the fair cause of my discontent. 
Were you as other women I have seen, 
Some being in body gross, and some in mind ; 
Some whose fair parts had took up evil lodgings ; 
Some frozen in chastity ; some burned in passion ; 
Some that fall short of sense; some that o'errun it ; 
Some stained with care; some jaded out with pleasure ; 
Some that are nursed up in the lap of riches ; 
Some that are broken-backed with poverty; 
Some being wayward willed ; others whose tongues 



148 THE rogues' mirror. 

Too much run up and down ; some this, some that : 

Since 'tis the part of mortals to be frail, 

And owe allegiance to their origin, — 

But to be few, were you as others are, 

I would be now what I have been before. 

But when my eyes first lighted on your face, 

My lot of love was cast, and ever since 

There has it lain. Oft have I walked with you 

Under the waving tresses of the pine, 

Listening in silence to your merriment, 

While all the time my thoughts, like honey-bees, 

Were building golden fancies in my brain. 

And so, with good hope and no art at all, 

If it can please you e'er to be my wife, 

Taking the little that I have to give, 

And deep repentance that it is no more, 

Sure, I would reckon it the happiest hour, 

And high tide of my life. 

Oath. What do I hear? 

Oh sir, I am too young, too, too unguided, 
And all unworthy of you. There are faults, 
Believe me, there are faults and flaws within me, 
More than in others. I am young and thoughtless, 
Untaught in the world's ways, simple, not wise, 
Not strong to be your helpmate ; and when time 
Has ta'en the first bright colors from your love, 
I fear, I fear, — 

Levee. Now by my grace, fear nothing. 

Oath. Oh, as you love me, say no more to-night. 

Levee. Nay, love, then I will not. Think w T ell upon it. 
I would not have you hasty. Now when life 
Stands on the shore, ready to be embarked, 
It well beseems to look before, and after, 
For the first road may never be retraced. 
There lies our happiness, if we go right; 
There lies our misery, if we go wrong. 
Then take the way that most commends itself 
To your well being and your happiness, 
And for myself, by that I will abide. 
So, love, a wise good-night. (Exit.) 

Gath. How quick my breathing i« ! 



THE rogues' mirror. 149 

This is the trouble that has wakened me, 

And which I knew not. Oh love, love, sweet love, 

How ari thou like the odors of the fields, 

Breathed and not seen. The footsteps of the morn 

Run hitherwarcl ; it is the break of day. 

I must within doors, for the night is damp. 

{Exit above.') 
Ransom advances. 

Ban. Devil take me if I ever play lover again. Here 
is a warning to a sensible man, a timely lighthouse o'er 
the rocks of folly. I would rather go my way to a single 
grave than take this road to a wedding; ay, and I will, 
that's flat. And there is another shall go with me, that's 
flat. And for my cousin, she may wed whom she will, if 
I choose him. I will have no more of a woman that is 
roses to one man and thorns to another, that's flat. And 
Christopher ! oh the villain ! If I do not give him a 
sore noddle some night ere he dies, may I turn to stone, 
that's flat. And now to my uncle, to breakfast him on 
these timely news. He will thank me for them? No. 
But though you shut your eyes, good uncle, you must 
swallow your physic, and that's flat. {Exit.) 

Scene III. — The garden of Ford's house. 
Enter Judge Ford and Ransom. 

Ford. Sir, spare this gossip. 

Ran. I speak but what I know. 

Ford. Come, come, I'll hear no more ; 'twere idleness 
To ply me further. 

Han. Are you settled in it? 

Ford. Most firmly; you are ridden with a folly, 
To press such speech upon me. 
If you have aught 
To say against my friend, say it and done. 

Han. Why, so I have. This morn, being early up — 

Ford. So? I think 'tis breakfast-time. 

Han. Will you hear me? 

Ford. Scandal is tough food. 



150 the rogues' mirror. 

Ban. Being early up, 

I heard Levee beneath your daughter's window, 
Twisting line sayings. 

Ford. What was the hour? 

Ban. Past four, and somewhat dark. 

Ford. What did he wear? 

Ban. A cloak. 

Ford. Black? 

Ban. Even as the night 

That wrapped him up. 

Ford. A cloak becomes him well. 

Ban. Oh! very pretty; your daughter in the window 
Seemed even beautif uler. 

Ford. Now you flatter me. 

Didst listen? „ 

Ban. Several minutes. 

Ford. An eavesdropper? 

Ban. Even so. This very pretty friend of yours 
Swore that he loved her well. 

Ford. And do you doubt 

She is deserving of as great a love 
As man e'er gave to woman? 

Ban. Sir, I see 

My task is very bootless ; yet I wish 
I were a better advocate ; I might 
Stir your suspicion. 

Ford. That is done already. 

Ban. I am happy to think so. 

Ford. Sir, I suspect 

Yourself. 

Ban. Not so. 

Ford. If you think you carry 

The stamp of honesty upon your brow r s, 
When you next pass a standing pool, look in it. 

Ban. And see an honest man. 

Ford. Nay, and see 

A common tattler, a fellow of more shifts 
Than I have breath to tell of. 

Ban. Let me finish. 

Ford. No, I am fixed ; I see an artifice 
In all you say. Pray, learn more cunning, nephew. 



THE ROGUES' MIRROR. 151 

When you do slander others you but hold 
A lamp to your own folly. 

Ban. I never in my life 

Spoke aught but truth. 

Ford. Always spoke truth ! oh fine ! 

You fall by aiming high ; better to take 
A modest station than to fail a greater. 
Say you are Us the world, in even parts 
Falsehood and truth ; and now I think the first 
Inclines you to put colors on your story, 
And slander my good friend. I know him well, 
His goodness and his unstained honesty. 
There is no man, and but one woman else, 
I wear so near my heart. 
'"* Ban. Is't possible? 

You worship a dull idol. 

Ford. No more of this : 

Pray, leave me here ; I have some weighty business 
Of judgeship to think on. {Exit Bansom.) So, he is 

gone. 
Oh what a fool I ami Have I no eyes? 
No ears? no senses? Oh, my thoughts of late 
Have flown too high, and I have nothing noted 
Of these affairs that stared me in the face. 
I have oft seen a man that bent his eyes 
Upon the stars, tread in a mud-puddle. 
Oh what a fool ! If Catharine and Levee 
Keep hours between them, she's undutiful, 
And he's unfriendly. For their honor's sake, 
I think there's no concern ; foul thoughts could find 
No entertainment in so fair a man. 
But if their mark is marriage — no, by heaven, 
He is too old, too old ; I will not have it ; 
'Twere better I were dead. — Yonder he comes. 
How shall I bear myself? I'll not be moved 
To show a face like dog-days, fair and foul, 
All in a minute. I will sift his talk 
And sow such words of council in his ear, 
Shall souse his lovesickness. I'll droop my lids, 
And seem to see him not. 

Enter Levec. 



152 the rogues' mirror. 

Levee. Lift up your eyes, 

And see a prodigy. 

Ford. So early up ! 

Levee. Earlier than you ; some remnant of the night 
Lurks in your countenance. 

Ford. I fear, 'tis sadness. 

Levee. Tell me, what's my humor? 

Ford. Foul weather mirth. 

Levee. I wander in your meaning. Come, cheer u.p ; 
I've seen a pondering crow look grave as you, 
But ne'er a man before. 

Ford. You cannot say 

My sadness is not a fair gentleman, 
That makes his tongue outstep his finer sense 
In merry company, and keeps his sorrow, 
As young men do their loves, a thing alone. 
And as I think of it, young men and love 
Rhymed in my dreams to-night. I' faith, I know 
That Cathariue is nearing on that age, 
Wherein young maidens wont to weave their fancies 
About some prop, like orioles on the elms ; 
And it concerns me much, indeed it is 
A freight of worriment, that she should step 
Along this edge of love most painfully ; 
And by and by, if she but look about, 
She'll find a road in some man's honest thought 
That's worthy to be trod. 

Levee. Fie on it, friend. 

Your fears are feathers ; they are parents' fears 
That are as quick of wing as parents' hopes, 
Startled at naught. 

Ford. I thank you for the comfort, 

And yet, what if she chose, being wayward-willed, 
A fellow of no mark ; or say, a man 
Far past her age, one that were like to make her 
A widow in her May. 

Levee. You live in shadows. 

Ford. Then lead me to the light. 

Levee. Why, so I will. 

Find sunshine in yourself. 

Ford. Ay, there's the question. 



the- rogues' mirror. 153 

Levee. Nay, there's the answer. 

Ford. Think not so, my friend ; 

For at our time of life, the mind is wont 
To beat about in darkness, on that limit 
Whereto we're all consigned. There is no right 
But takes a cast of wrong ; no wrong but grows 
More foul by looking at it. 

Levee. The more reason 

We should be merry ; let the spirit rise 
Even though the body fall; let us take mirth 
Freely where'er we find it, and cold sorrow 
Sparingly when it comes, be comfortable 
And mild old men, or death enlists our bodies, 
While yet we're ripe to live. 

Ford. Were we all that, 

We would be young. I say I am in trouble 
Over my daughter. You have noticed her? 

Levee. She is right beautiful. 

Ford. Even so, I fear. 

Beauty's a candle ; every dizzard moth 
Flies to it. 

Levee. That's injury to the moth, and not to the candle. 

Ford. To answer jest with earnest, I have seen 
The candle thus put out. 

Levee. You are my ballast ; 

Wherein I'm light you're heavy. 

Ford. As you're my friend, 

Help me clear up my mind ; give me some light. 
Say, that my daughter married such a man, 
Of twice her age, could even twice her merit, 
Prov'n in him, make him suitable to wed 
What's past in him? or could her eager fancy 
Pull down its flight to accompany old age? 

Levee. I think this is a question for the woman, 
The sacrifice being hers. 

Ford. You darken darkness. 

Pray, give me some advice. 

Levee. I fear, I cannot. 

Enter Catharine. 

Ford. Here comes my daughter in the nick of time. 
I'll put the question home. What ! Catharine ! 



154 I THE ROGUES' MIRROR. 

Cath. Good-morning, sir. 

Ford. Come hither, Kate. ; 

You look the spring : tell me, what is't that puts 
Reel roses in your cheeks? 

Cath. The wind, I think. 

Levee. The wind has pretty favors. 

Cath. Thank you for that. 

Ford. And what for me? 

Cath. Why, I thank you also. 

Levee. Here's enough for all 

Ford. But put your father first. 

Cath. No sir, my errand first; breakfast is laid, 
And I am sent to call you. 

Ford. Faugh ! my stomach 

Is out of sorts with food. 

Cath. Are you not well? 

Ford. Seldom of late. I see my body grows 
Sensitive to the seasons, that with us 
Are strangely mixed ; the winter's thaw brings in 
April in penance, this day soft and mild, 
The next a dismal fog coffins the earth, 
And opens up the natural gates o' the body 
To swarming humors; then the hot July 
Burns men and starves the crops ; after the which, 
September, like a maid with many loves, 
Inclines to wet or dry, frosty or hot, 
Freezes or sweats the marrow; all which climate, 
And weather of sharp corners, rots the flesh, 
Keeps our wet noses sniffing of the air, 
Our eyes courting the vanes and weathercocks, 
Our tongues discoursing if the east be fair, 
The moon uncircled, the month upon the wane, 
The wind skittish or firm ; and thus and thus, 
The months all out of tune, and half mankind 
At odds between a fan and overcoat. 

Levee. Your blood is growing thin; you should in 
winter 
Go south : you have the means. 

Ford. But not the mind. 

Are we so weak? Do not the animals 
Crouch in the drifts? Our source is of the same; 



the rogues' mirror. 155 

Material earth ; we are but fair-writ copies 
Of grosser underbeings. 

Levee. But our flesh 

Is tender, our fair bodies delicate, 
And full of flaws. Therefore I do advise you, 
When winter first begins to poke his nose 
Out of the north, crawl from your banks of snow 
Into a softer climate. 

Ford. Never, sir. 

One-half the season fits us for the other; 
Each has its use ; summer and winter else 
Were out of joint. The snow is wholesome to us 
Though it frost-nips our blood 1 ; our senses grow 
To hardihood and keenness, like fine steel, 
Being tempered hot and cold. 

Levee. You're fixed to put 

Yourself beyond recovery. If change is nought, 
Where can you find a cure? 

Ford. Even at my side. 

Here is my Catharine, worth a thousand summers. 
Come, daughter, are you not agreed to it? 

Cath. To anything you say. 

Ford. Fie, fie, my love. 

You do not mean it. 

Cath. Truthfully, I do. 

I know right well you would not ask me aught 
My virtue could not look at steadily. 

Ford. Even so, but what of pleasures? We old men 
Are jealous-eyed as cats ; wilful and peevish, 
Sudden in thought, our whims put on and off, 
Like our attire, and when we have affection, 
On whom it lights, it seemeth like a curse, 
'Tis so imperative and busybody, 
So stuck about with thorns ; as we should say, 
The act of love makes other men our slaves, 
That else had been our masters ; yet withal. 
The love of aged folk shifts easily, 
And lights upon the shoulders of a fool, 
Much quicker than on wisdom. 
Moreover they are childlike and remorseful, 
Weep, much, and hide their weeping in a scold, 



156 THE rogues' mirror. 

Patter old stories, peep in everything, 

Tell falsehoods to the face, and being taxed 

Are hurt profoundly, set their tongues like snares 

To trip the uninformed, and in a word, 

(To make long matter short, short matter long) 

Rule with the fondness of a players' king, 

So being, their lot fall easy. 

Levee. If this is true, 

I'll stop my life at forty. 

Ford. Art so young ? 

Levee. Passing that age. 

Ford. Well, Ijear me to the end. 

If I were thus Kate, would you care for me? 

Cath. You do me wrong to ask it. 

Ford. Nay, but consider. 

Say that a dozen lovers were in suit 
For this fair hand I hold, but I, } r our father, 
Would have them not, being niggard of my treasure, 
(For you're my treasure, Kate) and like a miser 
More fond of cuddling gold than putting it 
Into the common market — if love and duty 
Beckoned your eyes apart, where would you turn, 
To lover or to father? 

Cath. Spare my modesty. . 

Ford. Oh, I shall hold you fast until you answer. 

Cath. And breakfast cooling? 

Ford. Ay, if the earth were cooling 

I'd wait an answer. 

Levee. Sure 'twould be a cold one. 

Ford. Come, sir, you will make a rebel of my daughter. 

Cath. Nay, father, he must first make you a ruler. 

Ford. See how I'm fleered at, friend. I' faith, she 
blushes. 
Come Catharine, 
Down with your colors, and surrender to me. 

Cath. Why, then, I will, in pity that good food 
Should thus be wasted. Have you appetite? 

Ford. I do assure you, more than ordinary. 
This fresh air is a passport to good health. 
Come friend, shall we to breakfast? 

Levee. I think 'tis time. (Exeunt.) 



THE rogues' mirror. 157 

Scene IV. — In a wood. 
Enter Ransom and Verrell. 

Ban. Hello! hello! 

Ver. What's this? Why are you blowing? 

Baa. To warm myself. 

Ver. To warm yourself? 

Ban. Yes. Am I not next neighbor to you? 

Ver. Well, I am not an icicle. 

Ban. It' needs but a hanging to make you one. There- 
fore be cheerful. There's justice on earth yet; volumes 
of it, volumes of it. But tell me, have you not the 
iciest humor under heaven? Are you not the very north 
pole of wit, the congealed jest-book of the world? 

Ver. What should I say, being an icicle? 

Ban. Your prayers, man, your praj r ers; remember 
justice, and say your prayers. But indeed, where's Cade? 

Ver. He turned back to meet Ratsey. I left him at 
the stile as we came over, bellowing his own praises, all 
wrapped up in his own opinion. 

Ban. But where's his opinion, man? Tell me that. 
Is it in his belly or his stomach? 

Ver. Bah! you shall split a hair and tell me. 

Ban. Why, then, the former; for his brains never 
grew above his waist. O Verrell ! 

Ver. What's the matter? 

Ban. I was thinking — 

Ver. Give me my tablets, ho! Here's a marvel for 
history to take note of. 

Ban. Stop ! stop ! — But indeed, I was thinking. 

Ver. Well, what's the grist? 

Ban Ah! Verrell, if a bullet should strike him in the 
guts what a scattering of learning would it make ! 

Ver. You durst not say this to his face. 

Ban. Hark ye, good master tree, — 

Ver. Stop ! fool. — I said, in Cade's face. 

Ban. And is it not wooden, Verrell, is. it not wooden? 
There never was such a countenance save on my grand- 
father's clock; never such a chest save on a century oak ; 
and (bless the mark!) he is gutted like a tenpin. — But 
here he comes. 



158 THE rogues' mirror. 

Ver. Tis some other. 

Ban. fle! I know his step well. {Music untlwut.) 
Damn my logic; 'tis Christopher. 

Ver. What! him that people swear by? 

Man. No, 'tis his brother, the devil. Let us hide here 
in the bushes. (Exeunt.) 

Enter Keen. 

Keen. (Sings ) 

Hop along, sister Mary, 
Hop along, sister Mary; 
The wind is a-cold, 
And thy cloak hath no fold; 
Hop along, sister Mary. 

Heigho ! Oat of the wind. What stockish listeners are 
these? Good friends, I thank you; but i' faith, you 
are the tallest men I ever played before. Oh! God bless 
my fortune! — Where am I, where am I? Is this hell, 
and are those two devils that come yonder, ? Nay, they 
are robbers, or murderers. God send that they be mur- 
derers ; I have more than three hundred dollars in my 
purse. 

M<- enter Ransom and Verrell. 

Mercy, mercy, kind robber; who are you? 

Ver. A man. 

Man. Look behind you. 

Keen. Oh! I am dead. (Terrell strikes him down.) 

Man. Well struck, Verrell. Thou hadst near made a 
bishop of him. 

Ver. Are all bishops thus? 

Man. Truly, truly, I fear not. But look at our friend 
here, how stiff he is. 

Ver. I fear, we have killed him. 

Ban. So be it; dead men have their uses. This one, 
by six of the clock to-morrow, will be a royal turnpike of 
pismires. Death is a correction of nature, and no sin. 
But stop up mine ears. Didst ever hear such profound 
sighs, such variety of groans? most piteous! Knock 
him once more across the pate, Verrell, and change the 
nature of his dreams. 



THE rogues' mirror. 159 

Ver. There's no time to waste. He will wake and see 
us. 

Ban. Peu ! his wits are falling yet. _ 

Ver. As you like it; but for me, I am gone. 

Ban. Stop ! ruuaway ; I have the foreboding of a plot 
in my brain. Here it is. We will drag this sack of guts 
into the brushwood here, and load him with sticks and 
brambles, till, no one would know the difference 'twist 
him and his brother the log. Then when our fellows 
come, we will roll our eyes like full moons, thus, with, 
Hem! what a thick black hollow is this! and, They say 
then be (/hosts hereabout ; and, What tit tug is that yonder? 
and the like, and the like. And so, when this dead man 
comes to his senses — 

Ver. But he has none. 

Ban. Oh'! trust a lawyer to come by what he has not. 
I say, this learned fiddler will presently fall creaking i' 
the nose like a tavern-sign. These poor groans are but 
forerunners to say a greater is coming. Then shall you 
see their hairs bristle, their eyes start out like rockets, 
and their cheeks hang down as white as lilies. 0, they 
will run to the edge of the w r orld with the nimbleness 
of two ghosts, and swear forever after that they saw 
a dozen. Fear makes the heart heavy and the heels light. 
Are you with me? 

Ver. I fear, he will wake too soon. 

Ban. Here, keep the cudgel at hand. Snatch him by 
that arm ; I will take the other. Now, sir. Zounds ! 
what a lump of wood he is ! 

Ver. Call'st him wood? I think, he is good twenty 
stone. 

Ban. A great bundle of fagots, ill put together. 
There, lay him there. Throw the brush over him quickly, 
whilst I watch for Ratsey and Cade. 

(Ransom retires to a distance.) 
Are you done? I think I hear voices. 

Ver. Look for yourself. I have tucked him away like 
a: babe in his crib. 

Ban. Verrell, you knave! turn his nose to the air. 
He, is all swathed about with juniper and propped up 
with a thorn bush. What a pillow for his fat sides! 
But here they come. Hello, ho ! 



160 the rogues' mirror. 

Enter Ratsey and Cade. 

Ver. Halt ! 

■Bat. Not with two sound legs. 

Ban. Is it you, Cade? 

Cade. Ay, by my fist. 

Ban. Saw you anything as you came hither? 

Cade. Why, trees, fences, and the like. 

Ban. But did you not see the devil astride a night- 
mare? 

Cade. Now you are mad. 

Ban. Nay, but the spirits are. Saw you it not, 
Ratsey? 

Bat. Away with your fooleries; you cannot put any 
tricks upon Joseph Ratsey, I can tell you; and if you do 
not throw down that great cudgel, I will discharge my 
pistol directly where you stand. If any man be hit, God 
bless him and give him a happy funeral. 

Cade. Why, what's the matter? 

Ban. I say, there are spirits abroad. 
Ver, Sing, Heigho ! the devil and all. 

Bat. Did you think there were spirits hereabout, 
Verrell, you would have run into the deep sea ere this for 
sheer fright; for you fell a-praying but yesternight, when 
an owl screeched, swearing away an ocean of sins like 
an eleventh-hour reprobate. I had near split my sides 
with laughing and cheering on the predicament. Twas 
thus, being midnight, I should say, or near that point. 
We were on the river-bank, throwing our lines amid- 
stream. By and by, too-witta-woo ! cries an owl, as if 
he were perched iu Verrell's hair. Zounds! cries he, his 
face shaking like a jelly, what was that? Spirits, quoth 
I; whereat he drops to his knees, like a prayer-master 
and bawls out, Mercy, mercy, good Lord! 'twas not I 
painted the mare white. 'Twas Batsey ; noy, 'twas Cade; 
for he had so much of his wit left. But he prayed on 
and on, and might have been chattering yet, had I not 
dropped a live coal on his neck, for hell-fire. I can tell 
you, it quite out-spluttered his tongue, and put thoughts 
into his heels. Zounds! Ransom, you should have been 
by, to see him caper 'cross meadows like Jack-a-lantern ; 
and all the while you might have roasted chestnuts on his 



THE ROGUES' MIRROR. 161 

shoulders. And now he has whittled a great cudgel and 
thmks to beat in ray brains. We shall see, we shall see. 
Ver. As I am a truthful Christian man — 

Bat. Verrell ! 

Ver. Well, then, as I am an untruthful Christian man, 
I mean you no ill. I have shaped this handspike only 
for ghosts, of whom there are numbers hereabout. Soft I 
what is't I hear? 

Bat. Poh ! there be no spirits on earth, and of late 
few in heaven. 

Cade. You are too headlong, Katsey, much too head- 
long. If a man wakes at six in the morning and snores 
again at six of eve, such a man may swear there is no 
darkness. But I hold the hour to witness that there is. 

Rat. Believ'st in ghosts? 

Cade. May my soul 'scape heaven if I do not. Did I 
not say to you as we came o'er the stile, There goes a 
ghos-t? 

Bat. No. 

Cade. And did you not say, Quite true, 'tis a dog? 

Bat. Ay, so I did. 

Cade. So — you are finding your memory. You have 
an excellent memory, if you will but remember it. Well, 
I will swear I was three times struck with hell- whips, 
as we came hither; once as we came through the 
pasture; again, as we leapt the brook; again, as we 
pricked through the thickets; and once again in the 
highway. Do you not remember, -I threatened you for 
beating me across the back? 

Bat. It may be. 

Cade. And did I not cry out with pain a score of 
times? 

Bat. No. 

Cade. Well, I doubt not I howled very softly. I am 
a man of stiff courage, and good resolution. I fear 
neither man nor ghost ; and if one troubles me hereafter 
I shall kill it and pin it in my hat like a butterfly. 

(Groans without.) 

Bat. By heaven, what was that? 

Ver. Owls, Ratsey. 

Cade. O that I were an innocent babe! (More groans.) 



162 THE rogues' mirror. 

Bat. Stay if you will ; but for me — 
Ver. What ! frighted at owls ! 

Keen advances. 

Bat. O hell ! 

Ver. Run for your lives. 

Ban. Help, help! I am down. 

Cade. Each for himself. 

Bat. Take to your heels. 

Ban. O the villains! (Exeunt all 6m£-Keen.) 

Keen. Mercy ! mercy ! trouble me not, sweet friends. 
I'll but go softly home, softly home. Fair gentlemen of 
the night, tumble me not for my money. I'll swear by 
the clock's tongue, and as true, I have not a penny of 
kind in my purse. I am but a poor man, sweet sirs, a 
poor, poor man, as barren as the debtor's oath. Gone! 
The fiends are gone. May the devil claw at their skirts, 
may they be carrion for the law. Damn the law, damn 
the law ; it protects me not. Faith, 'tis a sweet vulture, 
is this law, so the food be killed for its eating. But no 
valiant, alack! no fighter. Why, then, who is? Faith, 
says the world, Christopher Keen, prentice to the same. 
— Says the echo, Who? — Says the world, Christopher 
Keen, the sweetest singer out of the hand of heaven. 
Prosperous is he, and all the graces run at his heels:— 
Quoth the echo, Where is he? — Then says the world, 
weeping, Unhappy as Orpheus is he ; for he strayed into 
the forest when night was in the scales, playing such 
witching strains as drew — robbers; for as he tripped 
o'er the sheep-path, he was thrust through like a lamb; 
in short, he was set upon by numbers. — Says the echo, 
Was he valiant? — Says the world, Ay, and dearly did it 
cost him. For he was beat across the scalp with flails, 
and robbed of a round three hundred dollars, held in 
trust for Judge Ford, the eminent. Nor was he merci- 
fully slaughtered, but stuck up to dry on a thorn-bush, 
with a double acreage on his crown, and the devil's tracks 
(that's vengeance) in his heart. — Thus speaks the world 
out of her book, whereof I am printer. A likely tale, 
is it not? a virtuous tale? So. Now must I howl for 
help, and face out the story — be double-faced, in short, 



THE rogues' mirror. 163 

as nature and a club has made me. I wonder if the man 
who spins highways has tucked one away in this corner. 
Perhaps, there are no wayfarers. Perhaps, I shall never 
be heard. But no matter; there's a turnpike in the 
clouds. I'll cry to heaven, and trust to my virtue. Help, 
help, help ! I hear steps to the rescue ; now I will hide my 
pocket-book deep in my boot. 

Be-enter Ransom and Veriiell, with a torch. 

Ban. Who calls? 

Keen. This way, this way, 

Ver. Speak softer, man ; your voice is everywhere. " 

Ban. Once again. 

Keen. Right on, right on. gentlemen, as God is 
your judge, make haste and save one of his worthiest 
creatures. I think I am slaiu. help ! Look to your 
feet; there is a great puddle of blood in the path. 

Ban. Give me the light, Verrell; here's foul business. 
Softly, softly. Is'tyou, Christopher? 

Keen. let me die in peace. 
Ver. Why, so we would, had you not called us. 
• Keen. I say, I am ruined forever. 

Ban. Tut, man, you cannot live so long. 

Keen. Oh, oh, misery has seven lives. Touch me 
not. 

Ban. Stand off, Verrell, stand oft'. Have a care of his 
heels. — Now sir, leave your sprawlings, and tell us how 
you came here. 

Keen. God save me, I am robbed, I am ruined. O 
Ransom, I fear I am a murderer, and no. less. Who. 
would have thought, when Christopher Keen was a babe, 
that he would come to the gallows? My mother has told 
me oft I Was most gentle when a babe, and nothing note- 
worthy, save in a sound flesh and great appetite ; for at 
ten months I was six pound beyond the grocer's scales. 
They say, fat men be good natured, and prone to tickling 
sides with laughter, but here I have tickled sides in 
shrewd earnest, committed murder, in short; which is 
the crime of my most hatred, next to perjury. 0, I 
shall. die and be buried in my sins — 0. 

Ban. Why, Christopher, you are a finer man than I 



164 THE rogues' mirror. 

had ever thought you. You say, you have murdered 
these fellows. Have you their money? 

Keen. Their money? their money? Ransom, you 
do belie me, you tread my honor in the dust. Think you, 
I would steal a little money, to get in jail for't? 

Man. Nay, Christopher, steal more and get beyond it. 

Ver. Come, come, out with the money, divide the 
money. I promise'you, we shall have half of it, or know 
the reason. 

Keen. You mistake me, friends, you mistake me. I 
have no money, God's will, not even my own. I am the 
man that was robbed, and no other. 

Han. Zounds! sir, these lies will not stead you: they 
are too light, too thin for shrewd understandings. 

Keen. I have told you the truth, and nothing else. 

Han. Pish ! Goat's milk for children. Bring forth 
the money, or show the reason. 

Keen. Verrell, (is not your name Verrell?) I call 
you to witness my innocence. The circumstance was 
thus. I was walking along the highway not above two 
hours since, very decently, with evil intent against no 
man ; when behold ! some six or seven stout fellows came 
out upon me, chiefly in front; but one that was behind 
laid me by, and broke a great cudgel across my pate. 
Some two or three of these villains I am sure I paid back 
to nature, but by the rest I am pulled down into the 
gutter, beaten most fiendishly, and robbed of good three 
hundred dollars that I held in trust for your uncle, the 
judge. Then I was dragged above a mile into this 
hollow, and left to die like a common man. So, you 
have my story. Will you bind a kerchief about my head 
and bring me home speedily? 

Ban. Show me your purse. 

Keen. Why, I have none. You may search in my 
pockets; you may search in my hat; you may search in 
my breeches ; you may search in my pumps ; you may 
search in my throat; and if you find a dollar, a cent, I 
give it you for the pains. 

Ver. Come away, Ransom ; the idiot has but stumbled 
o'er a log and hurt his head ; yet he would have us believe 
the world is in arms against him. 



THE rogues' mirror. 165 

Ban. You are right, Verrell, let us begone. Here, 
take the liirht, ho ! 

Keen. Mercy, mercy! Will you not bring me home? 

Ban. Fall into our tracks if you will; and step 
quickly, for we walk with wings. On, Verrell, on. 

(Exeunt ) 

ACT III. 

Scene I. — A room in Ford's house* 
Enter Judge Ford and Catharine. 

Ford. I take it, Christopher has stolen the money. 

Cath. You do him a great wrong to think it, and a 
greater to say it ; for you have no proof, nor hope of any. 
If you were in a session of court and looking nicely into 
such an affair, I am sure you would never give this wrono- 
a lodging-place in your mind. He has carried many such 
charges of money, and has ever rendered honest account 
of all. 

Ford. Crime must have a beginning, and by my office, 
it shall have an end. 

Cath. And does it begin in a bruised head, and end in 
a fever? 

Ford. Come, come, these speeches have the flavor of a 
lawyer's brief. 

Cath. Am I not a judge's daughter? and cannot hered- 
ity run in the blood of a female? 

Ford. Nay, never blur your eyes over law-books, Kate ; 
'tis the vilest bog of learning that empties into the 
brain. — But as concerns my clerk, I know not how he 
came by his sickness, or if he has any. 

Cath. Has not the doctor said it? 

Ford. Why, he has wagged his head very sagely, and 
held a great many vials to the light, and stroked the 
fellow's pulse above fifty times. And all comes to this, 
that Christopher presently gets on his legs again, and 
swears the doctor has saved a great man indeed. 

Cath. It is much against humanity to charge him with 
the theft. Were you not yourself very wroth at first, 



166 the rogues' mirror. 

saying the man should be hanged that committed the 
assault? But afterward, when you found all the rest at 
one on his innocence, you declared war on reason, and 
said himself had stolen the money. I am sure the sum 
was not of such value, to buy all this trouble. 
Ford. You should know trouble is cheap. 
Cath. Truly, it would seem so; and yet you will go a 
great distance to pluck nettles. 

Ford. Do not set your judgment against mine; you 
are all much too wise, much too wise. I fear Levee over- 
runs civility to so earnestly protest the knave's inno- 
cence. 

Cath. He has not spoke of the matter above once, nor 
have any of us crossed you in this, as you complain. 
Indeed, we know our opinions are like ciphers ; they may 
be multiplied a thousand times, and get no value. 

Ford. O, you will take his part, I warrant you. 
Faith, daughter, I have a word to speak with you some 
time, concerning this friend of mine. He is an honest 
man, as you may say, ay, very honest, but something too 
prodigal of his speech. His words are over the brim 
at times, much too spendthrift, mark you; and again, 
daughter, take wisely only what is wisely given. 
Cath. I fear you are out of humor. 
Ford. Where have you learned this art of censure? 
You are too much in company with Levee, dost hear? 
Cath. I would fain hear nothing. 
Ford. What did you say? Here comes that pattern of 
a rake, my nephew. I have some words for him also. 

Enter Ransom, 

Ban. Now, uncle, what's the news? 

Ford. Do you know, sir, you are accounted a common 
vagabond? 

Ban. Now God bless me, is it possible? I had thought 
I was the worst vagabond of all, a most uncommon vaga- 
bond. I fear some man has slandered me. 

Ford. Sir, keep your jests for better company: 
perchance they may tickle a wiser man. But here is a 
note from some gross fellow that keeps an inn without 
the village; he says, you and your custom have near 
ruined him. and that you owe fifty dollars to him alone. 



THE rogues' mirror. 167 

Ban. He is a fool at figures ; 'tis no less than twice 
that sum. 

Ford. But yesterday, a tailor stopped me in the street 
and asked me if he should grant you credit. 

Ban. Why, he has given me credit these three months. 

Ford. Another man told me 'very angrily, you had 
broken half the windows of his house. 

Ban. And thrown cats in his well? 

Ford. He said nothing of it. 

Ban. Pah ! what a stomach he has ! 

Cath. You paint yourself blacker than you are. 

Ban. What do you think I am? 

Cath. To answer that were to speak — 

Ban. Beyond praise. I thank you for your good 
opinion. Sweet speech becomes sweet people; there- 
fore — 

Cath. I thank you. 

Ban. Therefore I speak well of all people, and am 
esteemed of all. But why do you change color? 

Cath. Out of innocence. 

Ban. So? I had thought 'twas admiration. 

Ford. Enough of this foppery. I fear you have set 
up a glass to see yourself that's under duty to your self- 
pride and consciousness. time and custom ! What a 
worthless age is this and what worthless tenants. Rank 
weeds grow in poor soil, for there never was an age when 
men promised so much and accomplished so little. Why, 
you shall see a fellow but out of his primer cry hello ! 
to the world, that all men gape at his cunning. At 
twelve he is so forward in his books and so apt in his 
wit as to make heaven tremble for her secrets. In 
another three years he is the style of wonder; affects fine 
clothes and gross talk, and hath such a fleering and a keen 
look as cuts the faces of all that behold him. But at 
twenty this god has lost his wings and become something 
less than a man. I would not have you like these, 
nephew, though nature would. If you will put away 
these wild usurped manners, I'll warrant you a bless- 
ing 

Ban. In your will? 

Ford. Nay, you had best take my advice to heart. 



168 THE rogues' mirror. 

Man. And die of heart-burn for a penalty. 

Ford. You are smothered up in your own conceit. — I 
wonder, how does Christopher this morning. 

Man. Even as he pleases ; a sick man is a king. 

Ford. Does he go about? 

Man. Believe me, these three days. He is the greatest 
villain but one in the country. I am the other and the 
greater; but we run in one harness. 

Cath. I think you claim better company than you 
keep. 

Man. You speak religion ; quite as true as an angel. I 
think you are an angel indeed ; so put me 'neath the wing 
of your purity, for I much desire to be better. 

Cath. Pray, how much better? 

Man. E'en as good as Christopher, for then 1 would be 
three hundred dollars the richer. 

Ford. Do you think he stole the money? 

Man. What do you think I have in my pocket? Come 
cousin, bend a sad brow, and make a guess what I have 
in my hand. 

Cath. I cannot. 

Man. 0, I will not be put off. 

Cath. Were I in your case — 

Man. You would be a pistol, which God forbid — 

(Pulls out a pistol.) 

Ford. What is the meaning of this? 

Man. Faith, the meaning is lost; it has neither lock 
nor hammer, and its nose is like my cousin the Jew's. 
But nathless, 'tis a pistol, though it lacks shrewdness of 
aim. I keep it in stead for extremities. If I were ever 
bayed by the law, I would shoot myself most carefully in 
the vitals. Indeed, I had as lief live as die. 

Ford. Sir, I am weary of your ways. 

Ban. Are they so difficult? Well, here is choicer 
company. 

Enter Christopher Keen, Levec, and Stephen. 

Cath. Good-morning, Christopher. 
Keen. Good-morning ; good-morning, your honor ; and 
you, Ransom, good-morning. 

Ban. Here's dignity with a patch on't. 



THE rogues' mirror. 1C9 

Ford. I am happy to see you on your feet again ; but 
for a man that has had a fever and two doctors, methinks 
you are quickly cured. 

Keen. Nay, my body cannot be well till my reputation 
is whole. I am much grieved that your honor doubts my 
honesty. 

Ford. Tis to be supposed. Well, sir, I shall hold you 
to account for the money. If you have stolen it yourself, 
render it up ; if it has been stolen of you, you can bear 
misfortune with fortitude, being innocent. 

Keen. Lord, sir, you will not put the officers on me ! 

Ford. I shall think on it. 

Keen. Stay me up, Stephen, or I faint. 

Ford. Tut, tut, do you not blush for your credit? 

Ban. Nay, that's past wishing, for his face is a 
natural blush-color. 

Keen. I had thought I was very pale. 

Ban. Even so; you show no colors, like a pirate. 

Keen. But I cannot be both. 

Man. But you are both ; in truth, you're double faced. 

Keen. that any man should have said I was double! 
Did your honor ever note in me auy swerving of virtue? 

Ford. Never till now. 

Keen. Worse and worse. I'll refer my probity to 
you, Ransom. Tell your uncle, am I not upright after 
my fashion? 

Ban. Truly, after the fashion of beasts. 

Keen. Can you say this, that plucked me from the very 
talons of robbers, bleeding, and all beaten in between the 
ears? Do you think I am a man that would commit 
suicide? 

Ban. Not by way of the head, that's certain. Heaven 
put a lock and key on your little treasure of wit, and I 
hold you honest in this wise, that you owe but little to 
nature. But for your misventure, if you have gone 
fowling for my opinion take it on the wing. You know 
it is your wont to go wandering about alone, with your 
head tucked under your wing, and your lips pleading the 
jury stumps to get from beneath your feet; and so, get- 
ting foul of the wood at dark, you were tripped by the 
heels over a bramble, and went headforemost into a tree 



170 THE rogues' mirror. 

trunk or the like. I have seen you often fall into such 
predicaments. Once you were e'en stepping into the 
river, but by a fortune saw your own face and fled in a 
fright. I have often thought your wit was never quite 
recovered. Are you not the man who said the earth was 
on her death-bed? I crown him, king of fools. 

Keen. O Ransom ! your great tougue runs quite 
through my ears. What have I done, to pull all this 
defamation upon me? Tis all abroad in the town how I 
am dealt with. 

Ford. Who was it told you? 

Keen. Faith, your honor, being in the village some 
two hours ago, I heard nothing but of my own infamy. 
Even as I touched foot among people, one stuttered out, 
as if the news were too great for his mouth, Here comes 
Christopher ! and when I thought to sneak away, another 
hooks his talons upon my coat, thus, 7s it you, indeed? 
with a great wonder that I was not between the bars. 
But a third shuffles up, and wishes my name in his album, 
'twixt two members of Congress ; For, said he, we must 
keep these hot-headed fellows apart And when I had writ 
my name in a good fair hand, Marry, quoth he, now J have 
the finest thieves' gallery in the States. You may imagine I 
staggered in his meaning, but I made no questions, for 
I was thrust about from one hand to another, much like 
a hand ball, or a ferret a-hunting, which indeed I was, 
for a hole. By and by a fellow on the edge of the crowd 
cries out, Trouble him not, neighbors ; he is the honestest 
man in fifty miles roundabout. — True, true, said two others 
in a breath, we were by when he was robbed. We saw the 
thieves. We chased them. — Nay, says the other, you 
remember tee ran for the officers. 

Ford. Know you their names? 

Keen. I inquired straightway. They are two men of 
good character, noted for honesty, of excellent 'havior, 
and as much modest as virtuous. 

Ford' Their names, their names. 

Keen. He that is the taller, with a majestical bearing 
and a most pleasant and ingenious countenance, his name 
is Cade ; t'other is Joseph Ratsey. 

Nan. Now God save me. 



THE rogues' mirror. 171 

Ford. Do you know them, Ransom? 

Ban. Too well for their credit. They are two scan- 
dalous fellows, two cut-throats and common pick-pockets, 
and as great liars as myself. 

Keen. Remember that, your honor, remember that. I 
assure you they are w y ell reported of all men, and 
loved by many. If you wish to see them, I think they 
are within calling. 

Ford. You said they were in the village. 

Keen. Ay, so I did ; truly, so I did ; but for my honor's 
sake I persuaded them to return with me, that you might 
hear their story. I will bring them hither. {Exit.) 

Ford. What does the knave intend? I have sentenced 
a score of men, and sweat less. 

Levee. Are you sure you are not beating an empty 
bush? I dare swear, he is an honest man. 

Ban. 0, his soul is as pure as an icicle. I would as 
lief dare the devil to a dicing for it. 

Levee. I would wager my life on his honesty. 

Ban. So ; but you durst not risk your purse. 

Levee. My purse? 

Ban. Ay, your purse; I mean, the money you have in 
your purse. 

Ford. Sir, be still. 

Levee. Nay, friend, I have no tremblings for my 
money. Let it lie hereon the table. If Christopher does 
not confirm himself innocent, I forfeit it with a grace. 

Cath. I beg you, sir, do not bet with him. 

Levee. 'Tis nothing, 'tis nothing; I am little the worse 
if I lose. 

Ban. {Taking up the purse.) Why, here's a gallant 
inn, stuffed full of guests. Your leave, sir; let me play 
the host. I'll turn the key of this chamber, and sppak up 
the tenant; your pardon, sir, do not kill me with your 
black looks. I am very sensitive. But who's here? An 
eagle ! Why, this is generous; 'tis beyond the level hand 
of courtesy. I thank you, sir. Ah! what's this? Here 
come a dozen yellow boys reeling after the first. Where 
there are drunkards in the attic, there's wine in the cellar. 
I hold it for a certainty there is pure stuff beneath where 
such carat is atop. 'Tis wondrous strange, sir, a man 



172 THE rogues' mirror. 

that has been so rich as this should scowl so damnably. 
I am quite killed and blasted by your awful nods. Why, 
sir, here's a bill with a fortune on its face. I thank you 
for it; 'twill round up the account with mine host. And 
here is another will buy the cheerfulest face the hostler 
has seen in a twelvemonth. 

Ford. Art not ashamed? 

Ban. What, of my wealth? It is the way of the world. 
But step into the street, and you shall see a man sporting 
all his wealth and part of another's on his back, and 
nothing ashamed of it. Bah ! 

Enter Christopher Keen, Ratsey and Cade. 

Ford. What have we here? 

Keen. Two honest gentlemen, your honor, caught 
abroad in a wicked world. They are the same for whom 
I bespoke your honor's audience. This foremost one here 
is Cade. 

Ban. Oho! is it you. Cade? 

Cade. Well, who did you think I was? 

Ban. A ghost ; look that you do not run away from 
yourself. 

Bat. What do you mean, Ransom? 

Ban. We shall see what we shall see ; which is better 
than to see more than is to be seen. Am I not right, 
master fleet-foot? 

Ford. Sir, keep your tattle to yourself. Folly is like a 
linnet, sweetest in a cage. — And you, master Cade, me- 
thinks I have seen you ere this. 

Cade. Your eyes might have been worse employed. 

Ford. I am fain to think so. Christopher here has 
praised you to be a mountain over other men, both for 
modesty, for virtues, and all the kindred qualities of 
greatness. I make no doubt you are also truth-telling, 
which is more than all. 

Cade. There's no doubt on't. 

Ford. Then to the question. Do you know aught of 
this affair. 

Bat. Not all, but the whole. 

Keen. I can assure your honor, they are all they say 
they are. 



THE rogues' mirror. 173 

Bat. It was thus. Ransom, ourselves, and a lying, 
cowardly, malmsey, perjured rake named Verrell, we 
came Into the woods on the night wherein this learned 
aud ingenious clerk was robbed and dispatched. What 
we were saying I have not on file, but of a sudden we 
were set upon by six or seven villains, w T hose faces were 
much bruised and battered, like sots in a session. Where- 
upon, seeing them, we took to our heels, and narrowly 
escaped with our lives. But Verrell and Ransom stumbled 
upon the defendant and brought him away home, as they 
can tell you. Those who robbed him, your honor, we 
saw, and also his own corpse in the bushes. If this be 
not the truth, there is no truth upon earth. 

Ford- Say you the same, sir? 

Cade. Ay, verily I do. I'll tell you the story. It was 
thus. Ransom, ourselves, and a lying, cowardly, malmsey, 
perjured rake named Verrell, we came into the woods on 
the night wherein this learned and ingenious clerk — 

Keen Oh, very well; enough, enough. 

Cade. What we were saying I have not on file, but of 
a sudden we were set upon by six or seven villains, whose 
faces were much bruised and battered, like sots in a 
session. Whereupon, seeing them, we took to our heels 
aud narrowly escaped with our lives. But Verrell and 
Ransom stumbled upon the defendant, and brought him 
away home, as they can tell you. Those who robbed him, 
your honor, we saw, and also his own corpse in the 
bushes. If this be not the truth, there is no truth upon 
earth. 

Ban. Faith, Cade, hang your learning on a peg, and 
spell your name plain ass the rest of your life. 

Cade. What's the matter? 

Ford. Were you with these fellows, Ransom? 

Ban You, sir, (To Levee) you wagered this wallet in 
good faith, did you not? 

Levee. I acknowledge it. 

Ban. Why, then, to speak fairly, I was with these 
fellows, as they say. But Verrell and I came first into 
the wood by appointment, to hunt up some scent of mis- 
chief, and while we stood there, in tumbled Christopher, 
pattering a villainous little song, and with both eyes 



174 THE rogues' mirror. 

buried in the earth. So, in a kind of sport, we knocked 
him down with a cudgel and dragged him into the 
bushes. 

Ford. Sir ! 

Ban. Dragged him into the bushes, with the earth for 
a couch and the sky for a coverlet. Then came Ratsey 
and Cade here, blustering like an east wind, and in a great 
fury that we said there were ghosts dwelled thereabout. 
For us, we held our peace, but Christopher speedily set 
up such a groaning that both cried out, a ghost ! a 
ghost ! — 

Bat. A ghost ! 

Cade. A ghost ! 

Ban. You may see what a pretty chorus they are ; for 
they cried, a ghost! and fled away swifter than their 
thoughts. But we, like men of humanity, laid by in the 
underwood, and after a time brought Christopher home 
to his kind again. — And now, have I not earned the 
wallet? 

Ford. What say you to this? 

Keen. O sir, I beg your pardon and forgiveness. 
I will return the money to your honor; 
And sooth, I cannot guess what text of evil 
The devil set in my heart, to take the money. 
But, sir, until your nephew cracked my head, 
And broke a cudgel cross my cranium, 
Bringing me into fever, fits, and blood, 
I was the precedent of honesty. 
I think this late dispersion of my senses 
Has laid me unto duty to a madness, 
A kind of groping aud unused blindness, 
That, were I not a man of brightest function, 
I had not thus so nearly kept the road. 
When that the eye of honor is put out, 
There's but the moiety of a true man left. 

Ford. No more of this. 
But let me tell you, sir, since you are mad, 
'Twere well I clapped a padlock on my purse. 
And for you, Ransom, why is it you fly 
Thus in our face, but that your wit being maiden, 
Has ta'en in marriage those hiffh-flavored forms 



THE rogues' mirror. 175- 

That are the strumpets of an idle mind. 
Art not ashamed ! Let me not hear of yon 
Another such a frolic, at your peril. 
Give back the purse you hold. 

Levee. No, not a whit. 

'Tis fairly forfeited, and fairly won. 

Ban. And if it were not so, the devil and all 
Might beat upon the gates, and never get it. (Exit.) 

Ford. I blush for kindred. 

Levee. Tut, it is no matter. 

How often does he win that lays his wager 
Upon the crookedness of human kind. 
what a world and wonder wilt be when 
Men shall use money and not money men. 

(Exeunt all but Stephen.) 

He-enter Ransom. 

Han. So still ! Methinks what a thunderclap of sense 
should follow such a calm of reason. Here is a piece of 
money to unlock your lips, and here is another to clasp 
them again, and one more that they may remain clasped. 

Steph. Nay, I cannot take the money. 

Ban. And I can ; so the weed thrives at the roots and 
the corn withers in the sun. — But to come about to my 
point, like a needle — am I not a needle, Stephen? 

Steph. Would you have me say yes or no? 

Ban. You are husband to the gawkiest wit in seven 
counties. 

Steph. I think I shall weep presently. 

Ban. What an April visage you wear over your copper 
cheeks. Truly, your mother seasoned in April. But 
tell me, how does my cousin and master Levee? 

Steph. Very badly, I fear. 

Ban. When did they last meet? 

Steph. A week since, in the garden. 

Ban. Seven days is a long time in lovers' clocks. 
Sometimes the coldest men are warmest lovers ; and 
contra too, or the world's uneven. Did they drop any 
vows in your hearing? 

Steph. You may so call it if you wish ; For, said he, 



176 the rogues' mirror. 

your wit and beauty, said he, like the tv)o white pigeons of 
Venus — 

Ban. The two doves of Venus. 

Steph. Ay, the two cloves of Venus. 

Ban. What said he then? 

Steph. Then the bells began, and he said no more. 
But your cousin ran away in several directions. 

Ban. Nay, that's impossible. 

Steph. Why, her wits ran one way and her legs an- 
other ; and when I crossed her a moment after her cheeks 
were as like to two torches as fire js to Are. 

Ban. This was a week ago, you say. 

Steph. A good round week, a week with two Sundays. 

Ban. By my faith, this fellow has a dry flesh. 

Steph. And a dry tongue also. I can tell you, Ran- 
som, he either thinks better of himself, or worse of her. 
For a week past he has scarce looked upon her, nor upon 
anyone, but as often as he sees her he runs away with 
his nose to the ground, as if he were hunting up an old 
scent; and this morning he beseeched me on what day 
the stage passed, for a spirit of travel moved within 
him. 

Ban. Ha ! mend your tongue. 

Steph. I cannot; 'tis the vile truth. 

Ban. Are you sure of it? 

Steph. As I am living — 

Ban. Never mind it. Who walks yonder? 

Steph. 'Tis himself, sunning in the orchard. 

Ban. As you are my friend, follow me and mark what 
happens. I will after him and pluck his beard out. 

Steph. Lord, Ransom, never do that. 

Ban. May I die like a muck-worm if I do not. Has 
he not jilted my cousin? Has he not made tracks upon 
her fair name? Are not his vows flying east and he 
west? Go to. If you fear to keep me company, hide in 
the hedge, and you shall see me chop him as fine as a 
fop's phrase Come on, come. 

Steph. Ransom, do not so. 

Ban. Nay, but I will, and before my heart grows 
mellow. Follow me, and you shall see a sight to make 
you wink with both eyes. {Exeunt.) 



THE rogues' mirror. 177 

Scene II. — In the garden. 
Enter Catharine and Levec, meeting. 

Levee. Good-morning, Kate. 

Cath. Good-morning, by the sun, 

And yet, 'tis evening by your countenance. 

Levec. I am right pleased to meet you here apart. 
It is my wont, when something's to be told, 
To tell it shortly, like the clock its hour. 
And yet, I know not, for these many days, 
This simple speech has stumbled on my tongue, 
And now comes off it very haltingly. 

Cath. I hope, 'tis nothing that has come between us. 

Levec. Ay, but it is. 

Cath. Can it be fault of mine? 

Levec. No, nor of any other, but learn this, 
111 fortune, like a shadow, walks with me, 
And everything that's dear to me is cursed. 

Cath. Woe me! I thought we were too well fenced 
in, 
To think of danger. 

Levec. We are as the sea-gull, 

That builds between the breakers and the bourn ; 
Sometimes 'tis dashed down by the elements, 
And sometimes by the blast-blown wave beneath. 
So we, 

Are by a kind of fate clashed down and whelmed, 
That built our nest most sagely up from earth. 

Cath. If there has any ill befallen us, 
Hide it not from me ; I am proof to all. 
There's nothing, though the earth turn to a flood, 
Can wash my love away. 

Levec. Nor mine, nor mine ; 

But what if I should say, I must begone, 
I must away, and leave you for a time? 

Cath. Why, sir, methinks 'twere nothing to weep o'er, 
So you returned again. 

Levec. Why, think you so? 

Cath. But must you leave? 

Levec. Hear this, and you shall say 

I act in good ripe wisdom. It has happened, 



178 THE rogues' mirror. 

E'en siuce the night I sang beneath your window, 

(Whether my love was figured in my face, 

Or if a small bird whispered in his ear.) 

Your father has looked hot and cold upon me, 

Has dropped strange sayings, and a picked care 

Perks up his cheek; and though 1 swear I never 

Did think to steal your heart without his own, 

Nor to make love in corners, yet, perchance, 

I have erred somewhat to the darker side, 

Tu not unfolding this my love to him. 

But even as water cannot bide with tire, 

Being so contrary in the element, 

Sense and discretion cannot live with love. 

And something more; it chanced once in the past 

He was my debtor for some kindnesses, 

And he may say, I come to patch a love 

Out of old threads, which, heaven forbid, I do not; 

Yet, as suspicion lurks iu secrecy, 

And darkness doubles all things, there may be 

Some ground and footing for his discontent. 

You know what I would say — and what to do, 

I now am graveled. 

Oath. And would you desert me? 

Levee. Nay, say not so; but I have much ado, 
My fancy runs so thick in this extreme, 
To find some way out of this wilderness, 
And this have hit upon ; 1 will excuse 
My absence to your father for a time, 
Travel, and get my breath in freer air, 
And when I shall return, boldly speak out. 
I will not long be gone, but in that time 
I have a hope his bitter mind will change. 
He will think better of me round a corner ; 
An absent friend's the dearest; and I know 
His turning fancy will bring us fair weather. 
All shall be sweet for all. Consider this, 
And give me answer when and where vou may. 

(Exit.) 

Cath. Gone? Is he gone so fast? How am I trimmed 
'Twixt love and duty ! That my father frowns 
Upon this love, I know; but yesterday, 



THE ROGUE*' MIRROR. 179 

As'I did walk with him, quoth he, and coughed, 

Aud strook his chin, Let not your maiden name 

Play whip to an old handle, and again, ■ 

Stowing his hands beneath his coat,- as one 

That is determined and all unshaked, 

There are men, quoth he, under the screen of love, 

That hob for golden fish. But who is here? 

Enter Hansom. 

Ban. Now, cousin, where's the villain? 

Cath. What do you mean? 

Ran. my sweet innocence, were your picture ta'en, 
With such a young frown growing in the brow, 
Mankind — But where's the villain? Tell me that. 

Cath. You speak you know not what. 

Ban. You are you know not what. 

Cath. Cousin, are you mad? 

Ban. Fie on't ; but where's the rogue? How like a 
sign 
0' the brothel hangs his face over his arm, 
Tasking the virtue. Let me meet with him, 
And I will snap his nose off. Hal my blood, 
Hot with dispatch, brings news of vengeance 
From this my heart. Where is the villain stowed? 
I tell you, Kate, he has played foul with you, 
Made you the free fan of his sweating mood, 
And being cooled, throws you away. Believe me, 
I know it all! I am your kith and kin, 
And while I live you never lack a hand 
To make your name good i' the face of the world. 
Come, I'll away, and lay the knave aboard. 

Cath. Stop ! You belie him. 

Ban. I belie him? 

Cath. I know you do. 

Ran. He is as inconstant 

As wind in alleys. Back ! you pretty fool ; 
Did I not see him kiss the tavern maid? 

Cath. You did not. 

Ban. Oh, you are right — 'twas you. 

Cath. Alas! alas! What is the matter, Ransom? 

Ban. Did he not plight his faith to you? 



180 THE rogues' mirror. 

Cath. He did not. 

Ban. Ha! mend your speech. 

Cath. And raend your manners, cousin. 

Ban. You cannot -put me off; he was a blind 
To all loose scandal, that did tell me this. 

Cath. Who was it. 

Ban. A fellow of wit, an infinite freebooter 
Into the corners of men's minds, the closets, 
Where maidens breach their loves, and in their prayers 
Call God and the key-hole fellow to their aid. 

Cath. I will not believe it. 

Ban. Believe it or no, 

'Tis heaven-protested truth. 

Cath. But I never pray, 

Save iu the church. 

Ban. Upon a hassock? 

Cath. Nay, 

Upon my knees. 

Ban. Why, then, your knees do pray, 

And that's the way with many a falsest heart. 
I tell you, Kate, he has played double with you, 
And half of him is damned. Have I not eyes? 
I know it all, trust me, I know it all, 
And your denials no more impress make 
Than footprints do in water. 

Cath. Who am I, 

To be so flouted? Give me way to pass. 

Ban. Give me your oath, then, and I'll be content. 

Cath. Who'll break her word will break her oath. 

Ban. A maxim 

More dead than living; but you look it true. 
And so, you do not love him. 

Cath. * So I said. 

Ban. Why, then, love me will you not? 

Cath. Nay, ask yourself 

If yon are worthy of it. {Exit.) 

Ban. So, so, so. 

A fool, a fool. I think, those who set up 
To cleanse their fellows do but daub themselves. 
That's flat, that's certain. Cursed are those who ride 
In the cockle-boat of passion ; sooner or later, 



THE rogues' mirror. 181 

The gale that leaves the steady-tracing bark, 

Like as a hawk, with all unbraced wing, 

Dashes the painted vaunter in the tides. 

But I forget myself. Stephen ! Stephen ! Come forth. 

Enter Stephen. 

Steph. Is he gone, now? 

Ban. O what a fool thou art ! 

Steph. Me? 

Ban. Never bring more news to me. 

Steph. Lord, is he dead? 

Ban. Were you not looking on? 

Steph. Not I ; I hid my head between my knees. 
Pray heaven, you have not killed him. 

Ban. All is well. 

Ask me no questions. I have peppered him 
As he deserves. .Well, it is dinner time. 
Cupid shoots low ; I am struck in the stomach, Stephen, 
Let us to meals. {Exit Stephen.) 

Enter Ratsey and Cade. 

Bat. Here he is. 

Cade. Hello ! Come here, Ransom. 

Ban. Have a care, Cade. Tis a rash man that steps 
between me and my dinner. 

Bat. We are in the mood. Tell me, did you indeed 
knock down that scurvy dung-hill lawyer with a club? 

Ban. Twice over, I did it. 

Bat. Twice the truth is a lie. But never mind. I 
would I had his neck 'twixt my thumb and finger; 
I would wring his lying tongue from his throat. He 
promised us fifty dollars if we would swear we saw him 
robbed, which is a good round price for a second-hand 
conscience. But when we asked him for it, what do you 
think he said? 

Ban. Away, vile perjurers ! Trouble not me. 
Is there not habeas corpus? Sue, ye knave. 
Is there not law? Is there not equity? 
Woo me with law, if thou my love wouldst have. 
Why do you stop up my mouth? I have a much prettier 

couplet than that on my tongue's end. It begins 

thus — 



182 the rogues' mirror. 

Bat. If you speak another line of this, you shall go 
the roacl of mortality with half the rhyme hanging in 
mid air. But shortly, we must have money. 

Ban. What is is, and what shall be shall be. 

Bat. No mockery, at your peril. Do you know a 
little old woman that people call Dame Durrell? 

Ban. Never meddle with her; she has a tongue like 
a needle. We met her in the street once, and she named 
Cade here such villainous terms as made him blench, for 
fear-he was discovered. I tell you, go not near. 

Bat. But she has money, Ransom; two bags full for 
sure. We saw her telling it over by lamplight. 

Cade. Ay, that we did. 

Ban. The moral is, draw the curtain. Well, what 
shall you do? 

Bat. Your blood is grown tame, if you cannot guess. 

Ban. Well, my blood is tame then. 

Bat. Tore God, that money shall be Joseph Ratsey's. 

Ban. 'Fore God, an ill guess. That money shall be 
Ransom's. 

Cade. Are you with us, then? 

Ban. If I die not of starvation, I will meet you to- 
morrow night in the old place; and I swear by all the 
dark nights in the calendar I will have that money. But 
'tis a greater sin to starve than to steal. (Exeunt.) 

Scene III. — A hall in ForcVs house. 
Enter Judge Ford, Catharine, and Levec. 

Cath. Fie on it, sir. 

Ford. This is most sudden. 

Levec. I promise you, 'tis not. 

Ford. So much the worse. 

I will not have it, friend, I will not have it. 
Why, it is scarce the quarter of a year, 
Since we did swear, dost not remember it? 
What we did swear. O sir, your memory 
Dies quicker than the breath upon a glass, 
Quicker than bubbles. You will not dispute it, 
You pledged me never to break company ; 
A spare three months, scantily that; the year 



THE rogues' mirror. 183 

That then was youngster, is scarce middle grown. 

Your purpose ripens faster ; if it were 

A twelvemonth, I might say nature and you, 

Were something kin ; the grass is strown with snow 

All in its season, birt your friendship, sir, 

Blows cold before its time. 

Levee. Speak not of friendship, 

"lis laid beneath the frost. 

Ford. Ay. dead. 

Levee. My meaning was 

That my affection was unshakable. 

Ford. And mine the same ; I hold it in the closet 
Next nearest to my heart. 

Levee. Then hear to me. 

Ford. Why so I have, Levee, most faithfully, 
And as I see all adds to this, 
That you are fixed to leave us, how or when 
I have not tongue to ask nor ears to hear ; 
And though you quote a thousand pretty reasons, 
Stuck like a plump of blossoms on one bough, 
You cannot marry happiness with grief, 
Nor make sour discourse sweet. 

Levee. Sir; I make 

Necessity my choice, and so must you. 
Pray put aside this dumpish countenance, 
As I do mine. 

Ford. 0, I am not as you, 

I do not play in masks. 

Cath. Fie, fie, these tears 

Will put your eyes out, father. I promise you, 
I take this as a jest. 

Ford. Oh, here's the humor 

That lies in hanging. 

Levee. Soft! sir, do not weep. 

Indeed, had I thought this, I would have come 
More carefully on the point. I have said first 
What was by nature last, and what was first 
I have quite struck out of memory. Bear with me 
And give me time to speak. You know right well 
That I was ever fitful, wild, mistempered, 
Blowing hot and cold at once, ne'er setting foot 



184 the rogues' mirror. 

Save on a rolling stone. Twas thus in youth ; 

If I did ever settle to a task, 

'Twas straightway irksome ; if I chose another 

The first seemed pleasanter ; where'er I stopped 

A contrary fit drew me to look beyond, 

And heaven was where I was not. You know this, 

My shifting ways, my mind of many colors, 

Like painters' pallets. Furthermore, to this, 

Add my adventures that a trick of fortune 

Huddled upon me ; for a dozen years 

I've ebbed and flowed over the fields of France, 

And there I caught the infection of the times, 

A smouldering temper and a whirliug wit, 

That when I sit I have desire to walk, 

And when I walk I fret upon the pace, 

No faster to my seeming than a spirit, 

Carved by the master in a monastery. 

This restlessness and wanton temperament 

I shamefully confess, but cannot change ; 

I am not one of those that bend their thoughts, 

Like a dark lantern, 'gainst all but themselves. 

My inward eye oft tells me I have faults 

And social sins ; therefore be soft with me. 

I now am cloyed with ease; a tit of change 

Works in my blood ; I need a spice of travel 

To flavor life ; a little chase of pleasure 

Will make retirement sweet; then I'll return, 

To be the welcomer for absence sake. 

Ford. Are you determined? 

Levee. I promise you, I am. 

Ford. I am sorry for't. I have become so grafted 
Into your company* your going seems 
Like losing of a limb. 

Levee. A withered one. 

Ford. Nay, do not jest. How long, think you, 'twill be 
Ere you return? 

Levee. A sixmonth. 

Ford. Too much, by far. 

Say half that time shall be the extreme point, 
Not to be overrun an hour. 

Levee So be it. 
I shall not set forth under several days. 



THE rogues' MIRROR. 185 

Cath. Sir, you are like a rabbit. 

Levee. Like a rabbit? 

Cath. Ay. 

And we will use you as young wantons use 
The rabbit. 

Levee. And how is that? 

Cath. Why, find their course, 

And snare them o'er their tracks. 

Ford. Well spoken, daughter. 

He ne'er shall leave us but this once ; next time 
He'll find our home his loop. 

{Exeunt.) 

Scene IV. — A street in the town. 
Enter Two Citizens. 

First Citizen. Do you not hear a great noise? 

Second Citizen. 'Tis Dame Durrell, the bedlam. 

First Citizen. Doth she make a speech? Lord, Lord, 
neighbor, there is this division 'twixt men and women ; 
men are moderate in all things, save drink and women; 
but women fly to extremes and cantiness. Men cling 
and break, cling and break; there are twelve parties and 
no government; but women are hotter still and colder 
still. The sex, neighbor, owns more opinions than 
members ; for each woman hath two, one for private 
gossip and dissipation of discourse ; and one for the sex. 
I warrant you, they all hold the same judgment of them- 
selves, infinite goodness, infinite goodness. It matters 
not if they all fly to different points, their east and west 
of opinion meet on t'other side, the neutral ground of 
self-approbation. Hum ! 

Second Citizen. Let us turn back. 

First Citizen. To hear a woman speak ! Pah ! They 
are as like to each other as gutter is to gutter; all flow, 
all garbage. To see a woman speak is to see a woman 
with four arms, like the wind-mill yonder. 

Second Citizen. Nay, 'tis a steeple. 

First Citizen. Ay, like a steeple, very like a steeple. 
You have oft seen, neighbor, how an orator of good dis- 
cretion deports himself, with a wave and a gesture, thus 



186 THE rogues' mirror. 

and thus, to notify the stops and periods, the falls and 
smooth water of discourse, but always holding to this, 
that matter is the flesh of good oratory, and manner but 
the flavor of the instant. But look at a woman ! How 
doth she caper with phrases and dethrone our kingly 
English speech; ay, so justle extremities, so make earth 
of heaven, and heaven of earth, and, to be private, so 
make hell of both, that the words sing i' the ear. But 
what creature comes yonder? 

Enter Dame Durrell, at a distance, a crowd following . 

Second Citizen. "lis Dame Durrell, as I told you. 

First Citizen. What does she say? 

Second Citizen. She says, she has been robbed. 

First Citizen. Truly a woman, very like a woman. If 
your good honest citizen has been robbed, does he 
publish the thief about the streets? Pah! But your 
woman ! O your woman ! What does she say now? 

Second Citizen. Listen, listen; she comes this way. 

First Citizen. Is it possible. 

Second Citizen. Look how her skirts are fouled. 

D. Bur. Robbed ! robbed ! robbed ! 

Second Citizen. Poor soul. Good-morning, dame. 

D. Dur. Are you the sheriff? 

Second Citizen. The sheriff, ma'am? 

D. Dur. Give me my money. 'Twas he that did it. 
Get me my money. I saw him in the face, in the face, 
mind ye. His mask fell off in candle light. All gold, all 
gold. 'Twas Ransom, the judge's father. He and three 
others have got my money. Mercy ! mercy ! Load 'em 
with chains, hang 'em. Give me my money. 

Third Citizen. Come away, woman; you're mad. 

D. Dur. Gold, gold; all got by stitching. 'Twas a 
sunlight to a poor soul. Gone, gone. Are yon not the 
sheriff, sir? Give me my money. 

First Citizen. Sure, she has lost her wits. 

Fourth Citizen. Ay, that's certain. 

D. Dur. O! O! O! 

Fifth Citizen. What's to be done? 

First Citizen. Lead her away, some of you. 

Fifth Citizen. Do it yourself. She lives three miles 



THE rogues' mirror. 187 

out from the village, and it rained all yesternight. I 
will swear, mud ami water are a foot deep all the way. 

D. Dur. My money, my money. Where's the sheriff? 

First Citizen. Peace, peace ; he shall put you in the 
madhouse. 

D. Dur. Will none of you give me my money? 
Robbed ! robbed ! Bring me to Parson Bradley. Have 
mercy on a poor soul. 

Second Citizen. 'Tis 'a great shame she has lost her 
money. 

D. Dur. ! ! Parson Bradley shall give me my 
money. Bring me away. I shall have my money yet. 
Bring me to Parson Bradley. Gold, gold. He shall load 
'em with gyves. Give me my money. 

Enter Ratsey and several others. 

Bat. What's here, what's here? 

D. Dur. Are you the sheriff? 

Bat. Out of the way, woman. {Strikes her.) 

Several. Hold off! hold off! 

Bat. What dung-hill creature is this? Pah! how she 
smells ! 

Second Citizen. Do you know where Ransom is? She 
says he has stoleu her money. 

D. Dur. Robbed ! robbed ! robbed ! 

Bat. What a pretty tale is this ! She has lost a penny 
in the mud, and calls every man she meets a robber. 
Look up, you jade. Was it not I that stole your money? 

D. Dur. My money, my money. Chain him, load him 
with gyves. He stole my money. ■ Never tap your fore- 
head ; I'm not mad. You stole the money. Thief, thief, 
thief ! 

Bat. Stop your tongue, Jezebel; you're as mad as 
Jack-a-lantern. Take my word for it, she never had 
enough money to buy her coffin. Look at the tatters 
hanging over her heels ; look at her hands. I'm cursed, 
she has been grubbing in the muck for her money. Bring 
her away to the madhouse. {Exit.) 

First Citizen. That's it, that's it. 

Second Citizen. Have you eyes, and cannot you see 
she has been foully dealt with? I will wager my soul 



188 . THE rogues' mirror. 

Ransom and his crew have meddled with her. Is that 
not Judge Ford yonder? 

Fourth Citizen. Ay, 'tis he. 

First Citizen. He shall know of this. Mark me, good 
wife. Here comes Judge Ford, who will make all your 
odds even. When he passes, call to him, cry him for 
justice. 

Enter Judge Ford and Catharine. 

D. Dur. Justice, your honor. 

Second Citizen. Louder, louder. 

D. Dur. Justice, justice, justice. 

Ford. Who calls to me? 

Third Citizen. This poor crazy hag. 

Her brain's uncradled; she goes to and fro, 
Knotting her hands, peering in holes and crannies, 
And saying 'tis for money she has lost. 

Ford. Is mad, you say? 'Twere best she were con- 
signed 
Into the jail, waiting inquiry. 
One cannot tell what mischief may start up 
Out of the embers of dark lunacy. 

Second Citizen. Nay, she's civil. 

Cath. Tis Dame Durrell, father, 

A poor old woman, well disposed and mild; 
The flickering of a candle is more safe 
Than life to her poor body. 

Ford. Know'st her, then? 

Cath. Right well, and never did I know her thus. 
Look up, good mother'; nay, look in my face. 
How came you here? 

D. Dur. My money, my money. Give me my money. 
I'll go my ways. 

Ford. She is distracted. 

First Citizen. There are many like her, 

Go cross-roads in their speech, but never yet 
Have I seen one so aimless and distempered, 
So dubious and wide-winnowed in her speech, 
Stuck like a weather-cock to tell the winds. 
She even says her money has been stolen, 
Raves about robbers, knives, and painted faces, 



THE rogues' mirror. 189 

Calls for the sheriff, the parson, and the judge, 
But most of all her money, being a woman. 

Ford. I'll speak to her. Gossip, who stole your 
money? 

D. Dur. Fairies, sir. 

Ford. True, true, what was their color? 

D. Dur. As black as hell. 

Ford. 'Tis certain, she is mad. 

Come daughter, let us begone. 

Cath. Nay, I am loth. 

Surely, she has some wrong. 

Second Citizen. You speak it well. 

Judge Ford, be not so hasty ; stay a moment. 
Look at her limbs ; they're jaded out with travel, 
Her feet wilt under her ; I A r enture it, 
She has plodded through the mire upon the roads 
Three miles or more since midnight ; now 'tis morning. 
How she found out her steps i' the darkness hardly 
Falls short of miracle, unless her madness 
Hovered her sinking life and kept it warm. 
I make no doubt she has been nabbed and plundered 
By these wild fellows that infest the town, 
And love to play pranks upon travellers, 
When they are hugged up in their overcoats 
On stormy nights. Your honor, 'tis a pity 
This poor frail creature should be blown about 
By youngsters and mere ruffians. Shall't be said 
Men are unkinder to decrepit age 

Than flaws and north winds are? Even now, I think, 
Were it not for fright, she could a story tell 
Would blast the ears of those have done her wrong, 
And make their tongues, like coals, burn i' the mouth 
For shame, did not her fear set up a ghost 
In your unpitiful eyes and clenched lips, 
To make her wits run headlong. 

Ford. What's this to me? 

Second Citizen. Nothing to you, perchance. 

Ford. Fleer not at me. 

Second Citizen. Mark me, Judge Ford; she has thrice 
spoken 
Your nephew's name, labeled him with the crime, 
And as I think, most justly. 



190 the rogues' mirror. 

Ford. Dare you say this? 

Second Citizen. Ay, dare it and say it, too. There's- 
not a man 
That lives within the town, but his opinion 
Claps hands with mine. There were ever hereabout 
A sort of ruffians, fallen out with fortune, 
Ready to turn their hand to any business 
That had a smack of wildness ; but their body 
Lacked legs, until your nephew came among us, 
And now they kick their heels up in such frolics, 
As cannot be endured. The lazy law 
Plays blindman's buff, and gets a general laughter 
That 'tis so old and weak; and not being stopped, 
Their course has run the broader; men and women, 
Being out of nights, are laid by in dark places, 
Their beards cropped or their heels tripped up and tied, 
Their pocketbooks unloaded at a port 
They were not bound for, and such matters doue 
As need no telling, nay, as are not told of, 
For shame and fear o' the pestilence of laughter, 
So tickled is misfortune with a brother. 
All these are known, and now this poor old woman, 
That scrimped her food to lay by a few dollars, 
Is swept as clean of them as is her cupboard ; 
I tell you, sir, 'tis not to be ensured, 
And shall not, on my honor as a man. 

Ford. O you vile slanderer, who put you forward 
To use your stabbing tongue against my nephew? 
Who played you down, you ruffian? 

Second Citizen. Call'st me a ruffian? 

Ford. You shall hear of this. 

First Citizen. Fie, fie, fie, no quarrel. 

Ford. You pack of wolves, I'll throw a torch among 
you, 
Shall set you scurrying. What ! slander my nephew ! 
I'll set him 'gainst the field. There's not among you 
A man, but if a little sickly candle 
Were held up to his deeds, would be as black 
As now he's seeming white. I know you, sir, 
And you, and you. — O what a mire of thieves 
For a voung man to fall into ! O well ! 



THE ROGUES' MIRROR. 191 

Go to, go to. very well, good neighbors. 
You'll hear of this, mark me, you'll hear of this. 
My uephew has strong friends and willing ones, 
And I am of them. you backbiters ! 
Go home and gnaw yourselves, there's food for you. 
Ah, well ! ha. Well, I'll not say more of it. 
But if my vent were opeUj I know something 
Would scorch you damnably. I have it down, 
All jotted in a book. you cursed neighbors ! 
The devil's your next door tenant; lay in with him, 
And tilt at virtue. So; come, daughter, come. 
Pah ! how the place smells with the people in it. 

{Exeunt Judge Ford and Catharine.) 

Third Citizen. fine ! Who would have thought it? 

Fourth Citizen. You cannot say it was I. 

Third Citizen. Nor I. 

Fifth Citizen. Nor I. 

Fourth Citizen. I am not here, mark ye. {Exit.) 

Fifth Citizen. Nor I. 

Third Citizen. Nor I. {Exeunt several.') 

Second Citizen. It would seem they had all swallowed 
hot irons. 

First Citizen. Neighbor, 'tis late o' day. You have 
leaped over ears in quicksand ; as for me, I shall leave 
my tracks in it. {Exit.) 

Second Citizen. Go, go, you knaves. I do not fear the 
law, I. 

D. Dur. Ay, thou'lt make laws; thou'lt thou God 
Almighty, and make laws. Ay, thou'lt make laws. 

Sixth Citizen. What's to be done? 

Second Citizen. She is nigh done to death already. 
Pray you, friend, help me to bring her away, and leave 
the rest to me. Here's matter for the sheriff. 

{Exeunt.) 

Scene V. — A tavern. 

Enter Boy. 

Boy. Master, master, hurry you. Ho! master, mas- 
ter. 

Enter Host. 

Host. I say, you rogue. 



192 THE rogues' mirror. 

Boy. There are two fellows on great tall horses in the 
yard, a-sitting in the rain and cursing the hostler. They 
say, you're a villain; they say — 

Host. Take their bridles, you rogue. {Exit Boy.) 
Hark ! here they come. 

Enter Ransom and Verrell. 

Good morrow, friends; your healths, your precious 
healths. 

Ban. Damn you, sir, will nothing but a cannon wake 
you? 

Host. Bless my ears, I thought you were two thunder- 
storms tramping this way. Shall you have some broth, 
some hot stuff or other; and then, a taste of fowl, some 
bacon, some eggs? Never say nay; I can place your 
appetite by the dial. Let me see, let me see. 'Tis noon ; 
nay 'tis passing noon; nay, the clock is clapping hands at 
twelve. Lay your equipment here, and here. And now, 
shall you have a hot broth, and a rum in water? 

Ban. What you like, and let it be liberal. 

Ver. Remember, old parrot, we're sufficient. 

Ban. And look you — ho ! sir — lock the door and leave 
us to ourselves ; and when the meal is ready, rap on the 
panel ere you enter. 

Host. I'll warrant you, I'll warrant you. (Exit.) 

Ver. Look to it, Ransom, has he shot the lock? 

Ban. Ay, we're jailed. - 

Ver. Do not say it jestingly. An' we were jailed in- 
deed, you would never see the humor of four solid 
walls. 

Ban. Have you the money fast? 

Ver. The half of it is here beneath my coat. I would 
we had ta'en it all. 

Bun. O you glutton ! 

Ver. Nay, no glutton; but I am sure you gave Ratsey 
the fuller pouch. Look, what a lean rag is ours ! There's 
no meat between the ribs, and no stuffing in the belly. 
Let me undo the cords, and divide it. If there be an 
odd piece, 'tis mine. 

Ban. No, I shall have it. 

Ver. Devil take you, Ransom, have I not tugged it 
through mud and water these three miles? 



THE rogues' mirror. 193 

Ban. And have I not tugged both you and your bag- 
gage? Lord, you are the sleepiest rascal that ever took 
horse at midnight. Every three rods would you fall 
wagging your head like a tree-top, and thrice you pulled 
me by the coat and swore the ditches had legs — 

Ver. Even so; my jade was knee deep and more. 

Ban. And wheeled your horse this way and that, like 
a blind man in the game ; and ran pell-mell into the fences 
whenever a dog barked ; and swore you saw the north 
star in the southwest, when it was but a firefly on your 
nose ; and — Zounds ! man, what an ass you are ! 

Ver. Peace, peace, you shall have the coin. 

Ban. So will I, or break a dagger over your pate. 

Ver. Oho ! you are merry. Look, I stop up the mouth 
of the bag with my hand. Now I pluck it away. See 
there, and there ; golden words, golden words. I would all 
orators spoke such pretty language. 

Ban. Bah! your eyes dance a hornpipe. 

Ver. Well, a jig never chased sweeter music. Look 
there, there. That's a piece of money that is like a 
preacher's angel, neither man, nor woman, but better than 
either. Weigh it on your finger, Ransom. Is't not 
proper? What an odd face it has ! 'Twas stamped these 
fifty years ago. Ay, more than that. It would sweeten 
o'er the face of an alderman, I'll warrant you; it is the 
key to all doors. 

Ban. Do it up in your sleeve quickly. I hear steps. 

Ver. O what a clinking it makes! (Knocking.) 
Whistle, Ransom, I beg of you. Sing me a song; sing it 
loud as you may, and hide this clattering. 



Come over the stile to me, love. 
Come over the stile — 



(Sings.) 



As you love me Ransom, sing, sing. 
Host. (Without.) Hello! 

Ver. (Sings.) 

Come over the stile to me, love, 
Come over — 

Host. (Without.) Hello! hello! 

Ver. Help me, Ransom. what a damnable clink- 
ins ! 



194 THE rogues' mirror. 

Ban. Come in, come in. What a battering yon make. 
Enter Host and Susan, bearing dishes, etc. 

Host. Here's wine for you, sirs, of a good ripe age. 
Taste it, Ransom ; you are an excellent tippler, and as tine 
a judge as your uncle. 

Ban. A good mettle, a right good mettle. 

Host. You shall have more presently. (Exit. ) 

Ban. Susan, your health. 

Susan. Pray you, sir, look to your own. 

Ban. So I do, sweeting. Now I shall kiss — 

Susan. You dare not. 

Ban. The bottle; methinks 'tis sweeter than a shrew. 

Susan. Have your ways, sir. (Exit.) 

Ban. O Verrell, there's a woman indeed. You may beat 
the bush the world round, and ne'er And a better. 

Ver. I think I will peep at the gold again. 

Ban. Most sodden wretch! 

Ver. Thirty pieces at a count. 

Ban. A rare creature, by my faith. 

Ver. The topmost is an eagle. 

Ban. Has she not eyes like ovens? I burn, I burn. 

Ver. The next is its half value. 

Ban. Never, sir, she is the better of any three. 

Ver. Soft! here comes the host. (Sings.) 

Come over the stile to me, love, 
Come over the stile, I pray. 

Be-enter Host and Susax. 

Host. You shall have a fowl of rare flesh presently. 
Here's mutton. (Exit.) 

Ban. And here's a silly sheep. 

Susan. Fie on your courtesy. 

Ban. I shall sing you a song, Susan. Come, Verrell, 
you shall sing a song, and make over the sentiment to me. 

Ver. I shall sing for no one, mark that. 

Ban. Look, Susan, this fellow is bewitched of his 
senses. He supposes he has a mint of money in his 
sleeve that he stole from Dame Durrell, and being bloated 
with the thought, he will not sing. 

Ver. Did I say I would not? 



THE rogues' mirror. 195 

Ban. Yes, you denied it. 

Ver. Faugh ! denied a song. Listen to me. (Shuts.) 

Come over the stile to me, love, 

Come over the stile, I pray ; 
Your daddy nods in the old arm-chair, 

And we'll play trip and away. 

Come trip and away with me, love ; 

(I played a spring on the green.) 
We'll see such sights the world thorough, 

As haply never were seen. 

Ban. Faith, a pretty couplet. 
Susan. What said the maiden? 
Ban. Do you hear, sir? Sing me Susan's answer. 
Ver. (Sings.) 

Then quoth my love over the stile, 
This hot blood never will hold ; 
Who plays at trip and away when young, 
Will trip and away when old. 

Susan. Well answered, ! well answered. (Exit.) 

Ban. Take that to the devil with you. 

(Flings a glass at Verrell.) 

Ver. God ! Ransom ; will you murder me? 

Ban. Come back to your mess, fool. You jump about 
like a grasshopper. 

Ver. But what have I done? tell me, what have I 
done? 

Ban. Thou art an ass. I could send this bowl after 
you with a good will. 

Ver. And if you do, I will let sunlight into your bowels 
with this rapier. (Seizes an old sword.) 

Ban. Pah ! you cannot swing it with both hands. 

Ver. I warrant you, I can. Was it not borne in the 
Revolution? 

Ban. Faugh ! 

Ver. You may ask the landlord. He has as fine a pedi- 
gree as any horse hereabout ; and a wholesome remem- 
brance of his grandfather. This way he comes. 

Be-entcr Host. 

Tira-lira. O, «ir, this is a very curious weapon. 



196 THE rogues' mirror. 

Host. A weapon? Oyes! This was my grandfather's 

sword, gentlemen, and a braver soldier ne'er mounted 
horse. I promise you, he was the finis of many a stout 
Britishman; not one of these cold water fighters, but a 
soldier that drank the bottom from his bowl, and was 
blessed with a marvelous red eye-ball. You will see, 
Ransom, this blade is most horribly hacked. 

Ban. It could not nave been done better with a chisel. 

Host. You flatter me. 

Ver. Are you sure he fought in the Revolution? 

Host. Marry, I am. Was he not my grandfather? 

Ban. But where is the sheath? 

Host. Right here, under your nose. 

Ban. Nay, that cannot be the sheath. 

Host. Why, sir, I tell you, sir, why, why, — 

Ban. Bah ! bah ! bah ! I daresay this grandfather of 
yours never drew sword at all, for all brave men were 
used to throw away their scabbards on going into battle. 

Host. Was it the fashion? 

Ban. Believe me, not so. It was a law in those days. 

Host. But was it 'gainst the law to pick up the scabbard 
after the victory? Tell me that. 

Ban. Very good, sir; it was not. 

Host. There I have you on the hip. Ha! ha! I assure 
you, gentlemen, 'tis in history. I received a ticket once 
for proving it; for, mark you, if he is the grandfather, 
mark you, I am the grandson. I think no man may dis- 
pute that ; and if he does, I have a ticket to show f or't. 

Ban. Prithee, where was he- killed? 

Host. Killed? * 

Ban. It was the law, you fool. ^They must all be killed, 
or go to prison for't. I will wager, j^our grandfather 
was shot. 

Host. Ay, truly, trulv. Where do you think he was 
shot? 

Ban. In the back. 

Host. O! O! Never, sir. I mean, in what battle? 

Ban. Brandywine; 'tis a frequent cause of apoplexy. 
Your heady liquors keep ill company with your light 
wines. 

Host. Now you bandy with me ; — 'twas the battle of 



THE rogues' mirror. 197 

South Carolina, and a bloodier was never fought. — But 
hark! I hear shouts. There are more guests at hand. 
Your excuse, your excuse. {Exit.) 

Ver. Listen, Ransom. What clatter is that at the 
doors? 

Ban. A compound clatter, both hand and foot. 

Be-enter Susan, running. 

Susan Fly, fly, fly. 

Ban. So I will, just into your face, and steal a kiss. 
! it burns in my lips, your cheek is so red. A handker- 
chief ! a handkerchief ! Let me wipe my lips. 

Susan. For your lives, get upon your horses. There 
are a dozen officers beating at the doors. Fly, fly. 

Ver. This way, Ransom. We are betrayed. 

Ban. Slink away, you coward ! I will never stir from 
these footprints. Pass me the rapier ! out with the rapier. 
No, keep it yourself ; I will stab 'em with a fiddlestick. 
My virgin, by your leave. (Kisses her.) 

Susan. Here they come. 

Ver. And here I go. (Exit.} 

Susan. After him, Ransom; come, come. 

Ban. Wilt kiss me in the hall? 

Susan. Quick, quick. 

Ban. So, so ; 'tis darker there. You will be a firefiy 
indeed ; you will stick out of darkness like a star. Keep 
your fingers from my coat ; I follow you in chains. 

(Exeunt.) 

Enter presently, bursting the door, Host and several 

Officers. 

First Officer. This way, this way. 

Host. God 'a mercy, you shall pay for this. You shall 
not break my windows, burst my doors, invade my prem- 
ises, pursue my customers — 

First Officer. Stop your mouth, sir. 

Second Officer. Speak quick ; where are they? 

Host. I am both to speak and be still, am I? We shall 
see, we shall see. Two doors thrown down, the panels 
cracked, the hinges snapped short, both being in good 
repair, stable, new painted — 



198 the rogues' mirror. 

First Officer. Search everywhere. They are but lately 
gone ; the nest is hot. (Exeunt several.) Now, sir, come 
with us. 

Host. What have I clone? 

First Officer. Given aid to thieves. 

Host. Thieves? 

First Officer. Come away, and you shall see. 

Enter an Officer. 

What news? 

Third Officer. They are gone. They were oft" on their 
horses like the last wink of sleep. 

First Officer. Get us a mount, and quickly. They are 
both hard riders, and will run cross-country through the 
fields. Make haste, make haste. 

Host. Lord save us, has the devil turned sheriff? 

(Exeunt.) 

ACT IV. 

Scene I. — A highway. 

Enter Ransom. 

Ban. I wonder where is Verrell. They all promised 
To meet me here by ten ; now 'tis high noon ; 
Ay, past that time; the shadow I've been watching 
Has once diminished, and begins to creep 
Into the east. Have the fools left the town? 
That's their confession. O, this timeless frolic 
Has dipped us all in trouble. If they go 
For good and ever, they will take my guilt 
Upon their heels. The law has such a lookout 
For common runaways, it cannot see 
One who's at home. They have not the spirit 
To keep them here. No, I may be the one 
That's coward by remaining. What in one 
Is cowardice, in another is sheer bravery. 
I think each man is made after himself, 
Without a pattern ; so 'tis vain in all, 
The preacher and the lawyer and the judge, 



THE ROGUES ' MIRROR. 199 

To reckon in a word ; they might as well 

Say every plant grows like on every soil. 

Well, what is best for me? Shall I go with them, 

Or stay for Catharine? Women are traps, 

Burglars are caught in. Fie, this was no robbery, 

Though my soul names it so. We call crime great 

Only by penalty. If this old woman, 

This mangy, hoarding miser, had the wit 

To keep her mouth shut, I would pay her back 

What we have taken ; there was plenty left. 

Where thieves are pitiful law should have pity; 

But that is not the case. We took enough 

To drink and have a bout on ; 'twas a lark, 

Wherein our fancies got a-soaring madly. 

Well, shall I stay here, like a robin charmed 

With danger? Ho ! here is my uncle ; now 

He walks for health ; 'tis an odd time at noonday, 

But strange diseases have strange remedies. 

Enter Judge Ford. 

Good-morning, uncle. 

Ford. O Kansom ! Ransom ! Ransom ! 

Ban. What is the matter? Can you not be pleasant, 
As I was? 

Ford. O that I ne'er had a nephew ! 

Ban. O that I ne'er had an uncle ! 

Ford. Ransom, you stand in most gross need of one. 

Ban. I think I do. 

Ford. This lightness sits ill on you, 

Like weeds on heirs ; you cannot hide from me 
Distress and sorrow. 

Ban. No, I never tried to, 

I cannot hide good nature. 

Ford. Why should I 

Be cursed with relatives? Ransom ! Ransom ! 
You are my kin, my ward, my sister's child ; 
Blessed be that she is dead. Those are thrice happy, 
That die before their children come to manhood ; 
They have the pleasure of their pretty youth, 
And tenderness of budding nature, but 
Time kills the flower of their exDectation. 



200 THE rogues' mirror. 

Then the world chicles both guardian and parent, 
As if a teacher could make a person over. 
Youth is the excuse for those heroic failings ; 
But then, what's in will out. That is the law 
Of malice, which does make relations share 
Your evil name. 

Ban. Now what have I done? 

Ford. You are no better than a thief, even if 
You took her money in a frolic. 

Ban. Yes. 

Ford. You keep bad company; that's evidence 
Against the pureness of your mind. I would 
Be your excuse, but every gossip knows 
That you are close with Cade and Verrell ; then 
What can I do? I have the shame of kindred, 
And that's enough, without the charge of favor. 
My enemies do talk among themselves, 
How kin in blood is kin in mind ; but people 
At large hate murmured accusations, 
And take all muttering for scandal : thus 
I gain by whispered hatred ; but let me 
Sell justice for a minute, to my sorrow, 
To my love for you Ransom, there's a thing 
All men can see and reason. 

Ban. But are you sure 

That they will reason? 

Ford. Some hint at it now. 

Ban. A hint foreruns a quarrel ; every tattler 
Insinuates till he finds all the others 
Are wise as he ; then they fall to discussion, 
The proof of reason, next to quarreling, 
And after that to parties. If you have 
A party on your side, the question's lost 
And made the shuttlecock of patriotism. 
O, get a party and play the devil, uncle. 
Your graced opinions cannot stand alone, 
But half a dozen crawling knaves can give them 
The argument of numbers. Let them reason. 
There is no surer way they can go wrong, 
And that's the justice I love. What is this reason? 
The preacher's inspiration, and the poor's 



THE rogues' mirror. 201 

Resignment to their fate, the rich man's hate, 
A scurvy politician's name for trickery, 
The lawyer's and the attorney's argument, 
The prisoner's defence, the state's sure proof; 
Some say it comes by study; others think 
'Tis bred by nature ; but 'tis no such thing ; 
'Tis all fish, uncle. 

Ford.' Well, what will you do? 

Ban. I'll turn fishmonger, and I'll catch my fry 
Out of men's mouths. 

Ford. You talk most shameless nonsense. 

Ban. Hum ! why should I not? I am much ashamed 
Of my poor maggoty ware. 

Ford. You are bound 

To come to nothing by your lightness, Ransom. 
The wind that blows a paper kite is not 
More varying than our fortune ; nor are you 
Less light than that. You have begun a w r ay 
That in this world will not have end ; look to it. 
Heaven has spent all its mercy ; my own share 
Had given out long ago, but I kept on 
For love of my dead sister ; none should say 
I did not do my duty to my kindred, 
And none that I did not do it to justice. 

! 'tis a bitter choice 'twixt love and law ; 

But 'tis your fault; you might have come among us, 
With a name as bright as sunlight; but instead 
You take up with three rowdy fellows who 
Came here before you. Four of you together 
Have been so boisterous in this sober town, 
The people are disgusted ; you are seen 
In company of women, that you bring 
From the foul city ; and you waylay travellers 
For sport and pocket; in short, are a nuisance, 
That I must clear away. Who are those coming? 

1 shall not be seen here. 

Ban. Where? up the road? 

Ford. Yes, voncler. 

Ban. Those? 

Ford. You have the younger eyes. 

Ban. So I have, uncle. 



202 THE rogues' mirror. 

Ford. Well, who are they, quickly? 

Ban. 0, they are better company that have come 
To talk religion to me. 

Ford. They are Cade, 

Ratsey and Verrell ; they hang down their heads 
Like poppies, for I know them by their walk. 
I do renounce you, Ransom, still and forever, 
For keeping mates with these. Go your own way, 
And cursed be gratitude. 

Ban. You are no uncle. 

Ford. Tell them not, it is I. 

Ban. No, I will say 

'Tis some old silly clod-hopper. {Exit Judge Ford.) 

Enter Cade, Ratsev, and Verrell. 

How dare you 
Come by the road? 

Ver. Because it was the nearest. 

Ban. Thieving's not your profession ; you had rather 
Be jailed than run. O, you are all so lazy ! 

Ver. Yes, they said so. 

Ban. They are both liars, Verrell. 

Ver. Notorious ; but I told them 'twas as safe 
For thieves to walk at noonday. All the sheriffs 
Take heavy dinners. 

Ban. O, if you were rich, 

You would have wit enough for a fop. 

Ver. Thank you. 

Cade. What's to be thankful for? I wish you two 
Would think us some way out. 

Ban. So, let us reform. 

Bat. In a reformatory? 

Ban. Yes, let us give 

Ourselves to justice; those who flee from it, 
Endure more than it can inflict. I'm weary 
Of constant watching against constant harm. 
The last four days I've undergone more torments 
Than bars and prisons have. 'Tis a relief 
To know our place and station, to be fixed 
'Gainst the inconstancies of life, and better 
To be confined than always dreading it. 



THE rogues' mirror. 203 

We are like poor and little birds that hop 
Merrily round, to look at, but are really 
Keeping away from hawks and shrikes. I have 
Money enough to bribe our wardens, if 
They treat us vilely ;. we may learn a trade 
That will support us honestly, or at least 
May get the knack of honest knavery. 
What do you say to standing trial? 

Ver. Hum ! 

Let us consider. 

Cade. God ! 

Bat. Cade is a-praying. 

Cade. Thunder ! 

Bat. There's more of it. I would not think 

To see a man so changed. 

Ban. All miracles 

Are wrought in minutes. 

Bat. He was a great sinner. 

But now— Ho! (Cade starts off.) Where now, Cade? 

Are we not good 
Enough to be your company? 

Cade. You are — 

Ver. O, he commends us. But whereto so fast? 

Cade. To no damned jail, i' faith. 

Ban. Give me your reason. 

Bat. Ay, he was always reasonable, the best 
Among us blockheads. But what's to be done? 

Cade. Why, go to Portland, and wait there a while 
Till the whole thing blows over. 

Ver. This is like 

A revelation, Eansom. 

Ban. Ay, it sounds well. 

Bat. Like an old clock striking familiar wisdom, 
A dear friend at our elbow ; I ne'er thought 
Cade had such wit; but we will follow him. 

Ban. Yes, to the gallows, if need be. 

Cade. Come on. 

Ban. Consider what time it is. We will make ready 
To start to-night. 

Ver. The watch-dog knows us better 

Than does his master ; let us go this minute. 



204 THE rogues' mirror. 

There are short paths that lead through woods and caverns 
More dark than night. 

Ban. Nay, I have pressing business. 

Bat. To say good-by to Kate. Ha ! ha ! 

Ban. To get drunk, fool. 

Ver. The wise man's own indulgence ; 

Better than sleep or any drowsy drug 
To crack my care. 

Ban. I have nothing to take care of. 

Officers must look out for their own heads. 

Cade. To the haunt, fellows. 

Ban. Come away. 

{Exeunt.) 

Scene II. — The garden of Ford's house. 

Enter Levec. 

Levee. misery ! my heart is buried here, 
My body like a ghost does wander forth. 

Enter Christopher Keen and Stephen. 

Whither so fast? 

Steph. To get the horses ready. 

Levec. Is it so late? 

Keen. Near midnight. 

Levec. I would have said 'twas noonday, or the like. 
How sorrow puts the minutes underfoot ! 
Our passions are the glasses of our eyes, 
And double what we look at. Are we mirthful, 
The world is foppish with us ; are we splenitive, 
Then everything is sour ; are we in love, 
Then all the earth is bridal. The color of mind 
Paints every being likest to our fancy. 
Who's up within? 

Keen. The judge and Catharine. 

I think he means to take the ride with you. 

Levec. It is a wanton kindness ; the roacl is easy, 
Having such company as home-bred thoughts. 
It is three miles or more? 

Steph. 0, more than that. 



THE rogues' mirror. 205 

Levee. By heaven, he shall not do it. 
'Tis perilous for old and feeble bodies 
To take the wafture of the wet night air. 
Whither art going? 

Steph. For the horses, sir. 

Levee. Stop! stop! O let me think! Nay, stay with 
me. 
I shall not go to-night. 

Keen. Why, this is well. 

Levee. What did I say? Come, come, are you ready? 

Steph. Ready, sir? 

Levee. Yes, with the horses. 

Is there yet time? 

Steph. Double what is needed. 

Levee. I would not miss the stage for twenty worlds. 

{Exit Stephen.) 
Now, Christopher, I have some words for you, 
That I was telling over to myself, 
Like beads, when you broke in upon my mutterings. 

Keen. There is no harm, I hope. 

Levee. No, no, no. 

Perhaps you have some slight regard for me. 

Keen. Much more than I can tell. 

Levee. Soft! {The bells toll .) 

The Lord have mercy on us ; what was that? 

Keen. The bells a-tolling. 

Levee. So it was. Who's dead? 

Keen. Dame Durrell. 

Levee. I had thought it was myself. 

Well, it has happened two or three times, 
I have shown you some little kindnesses ; 
And though I do not clap my sometime favors 
Down in a note-book to be answered back, 
Nor stand in expectation of such answer, 
Since they are given from an open heart, 
Save when bad fortune or a circumstance 
Blocks up our ways ; — Come, sir, you have my meaning. 

Keen. If there is anything within my power 
Can bring you benefit, 'tis yours at once 
Free as the common air. 

Levee. Thanks, and more thanks. 



206 THE rogues' mirror. 

You are kind, right kind. Taking of some men 

Is pleasanter than giving. If 'tis true 

You hold yourself in some slight bond to me, 

There is a certain service you might do me, 

Would wipe the page and more. I ride to-night 

To Portland, then to Boston; the next stage 

Lands me at York, a miserable city, 

Where dollars mix with dirt ; half the men die 

Of lean starvation, and the other half 

Of swinging a great belly. Pitch as you will 

Death wins the toss ; that's woeful. 

Keen. And then. 

Levee. Canst count the seventh day? 

Keen. A primer boy could do that. 

Levee. Seven days from this 

Pinds me at — where? 

Keen. Did you question me? 

Enter Judge Ford and Catharine. 

Levee. Break up our talk; here comes graced com- 
pany. 

Ford. Is it you, Levee? This darkness is hard- 
featured. 

Levee. 'Tis I, indeed. 

Ford. By favor of the night 

We have stumbled on your council. Shall we stay? 

Levee. Be well assured. Methinks, 'tis a warm night 
To be so bolted in an overcoat. 

Cath. The ride is long, sir, you will need your own. 

Levee. Thank you, not I. You are not going with 
me? 

Ford. Thank you, I shall. 

Levee. Nay, friend, there is no need. 

Ford. Nay, friend, there is. 

Cath. My father sings as shrewdly as a parrot. 

Ford. You are a prettier bird ; teach me your notes. 

Levee. That is very true. 

Ford. O ho ! Kate, do you hear that? 

He keeps his tongue primed very wittily, 
And beauty holds the match. 

Cath. I saw no wit. 



THE rogues' mirror. 207 

Ford. I'll warrant. Well, where's Stephen? 
Cath. It is too early. 

Ford. Why girl, 'tis midnight; if you get not in, 
You will not put your eyes out till the stars. 

Be- enter Stephen. 

Stepli. All is ready. 

Ford. Are both horses in? 

The roads are heavy ; it were best be so. 

Steph. Ay, sir, both. 

Ford. Then come on, Levee, — 

There is an hour yet 'twixt our sorry parting. 

Levee. Though I have said good-by to all ere this, 
Once more, 
May your health prosper, Christopher, and yours. 

(To Stephen.) 
Kate, by your leave. (Kissing her.) There goes more 

kindness with it 
Than I can tell; and my lips take away 
More sweetness than a thousand musk roses, 
One other such a parting were sufficient 
To break my life. 

Cath. And one such other greeting 

I hope, enough to mend it. 

Levee. And all the rest is hope. 

(Exeunt severally.) 

Scene III. — A cross-road. 
Enter Ratsey, Verrell and Cade, vrith Ransom drunk. 

Ban. Come out, you rogue. 

Bat. Stop your bawling; you're drunk. 

Ban. Kiss your heel, you knave. 'Tis not I that am 
drunk; 'tis the world. Lord, my bowels are very 
empty. I have eaten nothing but pepper and salt these 
seven days. I mean, liquor. Does any man contrary 
me? None. Write me down, the world. Ay, that's it. 
And then, 'twas born in a jig and it danced on its birth- 
day. Verrell, a bee in your ear. What sleek-guts is 
that, strutting in the road? 



208 THE rogues' mirror. 

Cade. Mind your tongue. 

Ban. Soft! What clog barked? 

Cade. I will stop up your mouth with mud, like an 
ants' nest, if you speak again. The whole county will 
hear you. 

Ban. Verrell, Verrell, fetch me two cannon, and a 
quart of hot shot. If the devil ask the reason, tell him 
'tis for his brother's funeral. Tell him that. 

Ver. Come on, come on. 

Ban. Not an inch, as I am a fool. I will stick my 
knife into that giant, or beg mercy of a gallows. Come 
on, round robin; I know you. You robbed Dame 
Durrell; you put a gag in her mouth. Come on to Port- 
land, come on. If you're not walking to prison, you're 
running. Verrell, my cannon, and make a coffin for 
Cade. 

Bat. If you will not come along, we will leave you 
here in the gutter, that we will. 

Ver. Lookout, lookout. 

Ban. You'll leave me, will you? Take that. 

(Passes at Ratsey with his knife, and falls.) 

Bat. God, was ever a man so near death, and no 
prayers said? you murderer! Lie there and rot. Go 
not near, Verrell; he will kill you. 

Ban. Kill dogs and witches. Is it not night? 

Ver. Ay, and a double darkness to vou. What is 
that? 

Ban. Help me, help me ! Yonder comes a man with 
a torch. 

Bat. Run ! Tis the officers. 

Ver. O what a light ! Away, away ! 

(Exeunt all but Ransom.) 

Ban. Help, help, help, help! Let the nags trot; 'tis 
only the moon. Verrell, Verrell! O ho, my saint! 
Devil take mosquitoes ; what a pest-house they keep. If 
I catch small-pox, I am a man to be pitied. I wonder, 
could a horse make so cold a jest on so hot a night. 
Ha! my parents, say'st thou? My father was a 
percheron, and my mother was a Morgan mare. Ha ! ha ! 
Now, I have proof positive. That was the mightiest 
horse laugh ever laughed in the face of heaven. God 



THE ROGUES' MIRROR. 209 

send me a sweet peck of provinder. But indeed, I 
deserve not God's blessing. I will crawl into the bushes, 
or I am a scoundrel. 

Judge Ford and Levec appear in the distance. 

Ha! have I eyes? Yonder's old woolen-tongue and 
t'other fellow. By my soul, they come this way. Lie 
close, and watch. 

Ford. Nay, Stephen, hold the horses by the head ; 
The roan is skittish. We will walk a pace. 
I would have words with you. 

Levec. And for myself, 

I have no stomach for it. 

Ford. Wilt still play 

On the short strings? 

Levec. By heaven, I cannot help it. 

Ford. Nay, but you must. 

Levec. If any man has reason 

To call life death 'tis I. 

Ford. Look where you step. 

The hill grows steep. Upon these country roads, 
One must walk up or down, or else stand still. 

Levec. Is it so? 

Ford. A fine place for wind-mills. 

Look, yonder's the village. 

Levec. I can see it faintly. 

Ford. That is the church that crows upon the summit. 

Levec. Methinks the blue cape of the sky falls on it. 

Ford. 'Tis providently placed, so that the parson 
Can preach into the sails o' the wind-mill next. 

Levec. Are you so heretic? 

Ford. Nay, but the people 

Slide from the mountain tops into the city, 
And only the gloved fops in summer time 
Make it their perch. 

Levec. What is the reason of it? 

Ford. Heaven! what is here? 

Ban. {Fusing.) Wilt tread on me? Take that. 

(Stabs Judge Ford, and rushes past.) 

Ford. Murder, murder ! 

Levec. Ho, Stephen ! A light, a light ! 

Where are you hurt? 



210 THE rogues' mirror. 

Ford. I am more stabbed with sorrow 

Than with ungentle steel. Was it my nephew? 

Levee. Woe me, I know not. This way; a light, a 
light! 

Ford. Touch me upon the breast. 

Levee. O, this is blood. 

Ford. Is my watch in my pocket? 

Levee. I can feel it. 

Ford. Then 'tis my watch is beating, not my heart. 
Certain, my life is out. Who would have thought 
My frozen blood would melt so readily? 
Didst see the fellow's face? 

Levee. A light ! Make haste. 

Steph. (Without.) Ay, ay. 

Levee. Where is the dumb devil stowed? 

Lean on my arm, and do not speak again. 
It makes the blood flow faster. 

Enter Stephen with a light. 

Steph. Lord, sir, take the lamp. 

I am all dizzy headed. Who is dead? 

Ford. My nephew, 'twas my nephew. Give me your 
ear. 
Levee, you have been much on battlefields, 
How does a man feel that is dying of wounds? 

Levee. 0, speak not so. 

Ford. I tell you, 'tis a lie. 

What are these visions, at the point of death, 
That stuff men's eyes with horrors? Nothing, I say. 
A lie, a lie, a lie. Are you there? 

Levee. Right at your elbow. I've a vial here 
Will bring your strength up ; it is on your lips. 

Ford. Fie, fie, there's death in doses. (Dies.) 

Levee. Hold the light close. 

O what an hour ! Look, here the knife ran through, 
And pierced into the heart. Ay, he is dead. 
O, muffle up the lamp : I dare not look 
Into his face. 

Steph. By grace, what's to be done? 

Levee. Lend me a hand to lay him on the grass, 
Out of the mud ; and when the stage comes by, 



THE ROGUES' MIKROK. 211 

I will make chase after the murderer. 
He ran this way, and vanished like a breath 
Into this thicket here. No, heaven forbid 
That I should leave his body, though 'tis dumb ; 
But I will raise the town, and set the nose 
Of law upon the scent. Here, take him up, 
The sward is fresher on the other side. 

{Exeunt, bearing the body.) 

ACT V. 

Scene I. — On a highway. 
Enter Ransom, Verrell, Ratsey, and Cade. 

Ban. What time is it? 

Ver. Neither night nor day. 

Ban. Then let us rest a while upon this bank. 

Bat. Right in the gap of travel? 

Ban. I care not. 

I am so footsore, weak, and travel-stained, 
So malcontent with life and weary of it, 
The miles so many and the paces short, 
Twixt here and safety, though it were ray ruin, 
I would stand still, like does charmed with a torch, 
Right on the brink of danger. 

Cade. Stand there then. 
For me, I'll take the covert of the wood. 

Ban. And lie beneath a brake-bush? That were 
heaven, 
Were it not for griping hunger. Have you food? 

Ver. O, plentv of cold thoughts. 

Ban. Nor you? 

Cade. Not a crust. 

Ban. Nor you, Ratsey? 

Bat. It was you that carried it. 

Ban. And I have lost it ; I could fall down and die 
*Of thirst and hunger. 

Bat. There is a farmhouse near, 

And vou have money. 

Cade. More than all together. 



212 THE rogues' mirror. 

Ban. Here, take it; get us something; and make haste. 

Bat. Not I. 

Cade. Do it yourself. 

Ver. Let us cast lots, 

And whom it falls on, let him take the money, 
And get us food. The rest will leap the wall, 
And lie in ambush till he comes again. 

Eat. That's well. See, I pluck up a blade of grass. 
Stand back ; to which of us the flaw directs it, 
Let him call it fortune's finger. 

Ver. Throw it high. 

Bat. Mark how it falls. 

Cade. Ransom ! 

Bat. Ay, it was you. 

Ban. 'Tis foul, you stood me i' the eye of the wind. 

Cade. Go to, I did not. 

Bat. By my soul, 'twas fair. 

Ban. You know right well, it was not. 'Tis a mean- 
ness 
Bitterer than wormwood. 

Cade. What a craven are you ! 

Do a man's pari. 'Twas fortune threw the grass 
Upon you. 

Man. And you are my evil fortune. 

Bat. You shall repent it if you do not go, 

Ban. O Verrell! take my place. 

Ver. Not I. 

Ban. But I am feeble ; all my nerves are quivering 
Like bowstrings ; there are cankers on my feet, 
That I can scarce keep footing; my poor spirits, 
That were so tipsy but an hour ago, 
Are fall'n clown flat ; the knots that bound my limbs 
Together are untied ; 'tis not in nature 
To take another step. You are my friend, 
Then fill my place for me, and do this errand, 
I will repay it you a thousand times. 

Ver. The lot fell fairly ; you must do it yourself. 

Ban. Your heart is made of dust. 

Ver m Look how he snarls, 

Just like a painted lion on a show-bill. 

Cade. Ay, and as harmless. 



THE ROGUES' MIRROR. 213 

Ban. My spirits are washed out, 

But you shall have a hint of what they are. 

Cade. Do you threaten us? 

Ban. The words stick in my throat. 

Or I would tell you what — 

Bat. Come, if you spit 

Your spleen on us, you shall repent of it. 

Ban. On you! 

Bat. We are better than you are. 

Ban. You ! 

• Cade. Come, we are starving. 

Ban . I get the food this once ; 

Another time my sides shall fall together, 
Like to an empty bag, ere I will stir. . (Exit,) 

Cade. Think you he means us harm? 

Bat. I cannot tell. 

Ver. Believe me, he has lost all resolution. 
Did you not note him when he joined with us? 

Bat. Somewhat in haste. 

Cade. And all his color out. 

Ver. Ay, more than that ; saw you how wild he looked, 
As if his count'nance had soaked up despair? 
You will remember, when you two stood talking- 
Midway the road ; — upon a sanely bank 
Where blackberries grew; well, I was culling them, 
And there I saw him first, skulking along 
Almost upon all fours, much like a bird 
Shot in the wing; — well, he ran up to me, 
And beckoned me into the thorn bushes, 
Ne'er minding where they stabbed him; and, believe me,. 
His eyes hung on his cheeks for very fright ; 
And there he told me — 

Bat. What? 

Ver. You will not tell? 

Bat. Come, what did he say? 

Ver. Why, when we left him, 

Mired in the road, last night, he lay a while, 
All motion having fallen with him ; by and by, 
There came two men, his uncle and another; 
(And what the reason was that fetched them out. 
When nothing but the stink-cats are abroad, 



214 THE rogues' mirror. 

I mean, being midnight, there was madness in it.) 
Well, when they tread upon him, so he says, 
Being so pestered by mosquitoes that 
He was at cracking heat, and high in blood, 
Like the quicksilver in thermometers, — 

Bat. Stop not for that. 

Cade. Tell it plainly. 

Bat. Go on, go on. 

Ver. Well, being so boiling angry, 

He starts up in a fit and rubs his dagger 
Between his ribs. 

Cade. Whose ribs? 

Ver. Why, why, why — 

Bat. One tongue at a time. 

Ver. Why, his uncle's. 

Bat. Did he tell you this? 

Ver. All of it and more. 

And made me promise by a thousand oaths 
Never to breathe a word on't. 

Bat. You have told it 

Without once breathing, so no vows are broken. 

Ver. There spoke a friend. 

Cade. But did they see his face, 

When he ripped up th' old devil with his knife? 

Ver. Why, so he says. 

Bat. Then mischief is at large. 

Cade. But how could he be seen? The night was 
dark. 

Ver. Alas ! I know not. 

Cade. Are you sure of this? 

Ver. Death is not more certain. 

Bat. And he has brought 

The plague among us. 

Cade. So he has. 

Bat. In this forfeit 

We stand with him. Look you, it comes to pass, 
There will be hue and cry, racing and chasing, 
To find the murderer, and we who stand 
Eight in the trade and highway of suspicion ; 
(For, look you, 'twill be said those who have stolen 
And had the spot rubbed in. will also murder, 



THE rogues' mirror. 215 

Since they are reckless where they drive.) it comes 
We shall be run down by the officers, 
And clapped in jail; while for a little theft 
We might slink by the sentinel of law, 
And ne'er be thought of. 

Cade. But we did no murder. 

Bat. I tell you, we are rivals in the crime. 

Cade. S'blood ! we are not. 

Bat. you addle-head ! 

Ver. Tis certain, he will bear us no good will. 

Cade. Not he. 

Bat. Marked you what he said to us, 

Just as he parted? 

Ver. He was as mad as fire. 

Bat. He said, beware of Portland; when he came 
there 
He washed his hands of friendship. 

Cade. So he did. 

Bat. And looked a volume of the law at once. 

Cade. His purposes are dark. 

Bat. Yet you may read them 

By the uplightings of his countenance. 
How often has he twitted us of crimes, 
And blown the fire anew ! 

Cade. ■ Ay, more than that. 

Has he not said, 'twere best throw up our hands, 
And go to prison? And last night in drink 
He threatened to betray us to the law. 

Ver. Let us take to our heels, and leave him here 
Grounded upon his malice. 

Bat. That were bootless, 

His tongue being loose upon us. 

Cade. Twere best to stop it. 

Bat. Cade ! 

Cade. What is it? 

(Eatsey motions him apart.} 

Ver. I have ears also. 

Bat. Stand back, and keep your own thoughts com- 
pany. (Ratsey and Cade converse together.) 

Ver. Why, what is this? O tell me what you mutter ! 

Bat. Pravers for Ransom. 



216 THE ROGUES' MIRROR. 

Ver. You do not mean Mm ill? 

Cade. Not I. 
Rat. Nor I. 

Ver. Then why this hanging brow? 

For heaven's sake, friends, do him no injury. 
Bat. Soft ! here he comes. 

Re-enter Ransom. 

Ran. Here, take the basket; there is food enough. 
O, I am faint. I tell you, here is food. 
If you are hungry, eat; my breath is lodged, 
And I must rest. Here, Cade, and will you pay me 
With silence and hot looks? 

Cade. Take that, and that ! 

(Stabs Ransom.) 
Now you are paid. 

Ban. O, wondrous dark! 

Ver. What have you done? 

Rat. Be still, and lend a hand 

To throw him in the gutter. 

Ver. Fly, fly, fly. 

Enter several Officers. 

First Officer. Ho ! here they are. 

Second Officer. Stop, villains. 

Third Officer. Stand ! I say. 

Rat. What would you have with us? 

Second Officer. Who is this here 

Lies on his face? Wake, wake, I say. 

First Officer. This is Ransom. 

Second Officer. And murdered in the breast. Water ! 
get water ! 

First Officer. No more; his spirit is laid. Look how 
he bleeds. 
His face is white as paper. 0, you villains ! 
Which of you has done this? 
■ Third Officer. They cannot speak. 

First Officer. This body can. Come, put the irons on 
them. 
And bear this hacked corpse to the farmhouse yonder. 
For vou, sirs, 'tis a wonder but vour life 



the rogues' mirror. 217 

Is stretched to snapping; you are gallows marked. 
We here are witness to this bloody time. 
What lawyer now can lay the paint on crime? 

{Exeunt.) 

Scene II. — In the garden. 
Enter Christopher Keen and two Neighbors. 

First Neighbor. But have you heard the news? 

Keen. Touching myself? 

First Neighbor. You well may call it so, touching 
yourself, 
And striking others. To be short with you — 

Second Neighbor. Since, by the will of God, we all are 
mortal. 

First Neighbor. Our bodies being mortal. 

Second Neighbor. And heaven, which is 

The ocean of our being, heaven is pitiful 
To those who fall not in the ripe of nature, 
But by a gust or oddness of affairs 

Blown from their stem ; — the Lord has mercy on them, 
And so have men. 

Keen. 0, sir, 'tis good religion, but poor truth. 

First Neighbor. To take the road of speech — 

Second Neighbor. Ay, mark him now. 

First Neighbor. You here can bear me out. 

Second Neighbor. Both can and will. 

Keen. Pray, tell the news, and do not run about 
Taking each other's dust. 

Second Neighbor. We stopped to tell you. 

Keen. Well, then, my ears are open; tell it me. 

First Neighbor. Did Judge Ford sleep here yesternight? 

Keen. He did not. 

First Neighbor. Well, he is dead. 

Keen. Dead ! Now you jest with me. 

First Neighbor. I tell you, he was stabbed. 

Second Neighbor. Eight in the highway. 

Keen. Woe is me ! he owes me money. 

First Neighbor. The more the pity. 

Keen. The more the more pity. But who told you 
this? 



218 THE rogues' mirror. 

First Neighbor. Now you shall hear. It seems the 
judge's man 
Was with him, aucl another, at the cross-roads, 
Waiting the stage. Well, as they walked about, 
Up starts a fellow like a flame in straw, 
And cut the judge a gash across the breast. 
Making the blood to weep out at the wound ; 
And so, being dead, it seems this Stephen is sent 
To give you word ; we passed him on the road, 
And came first to the mark. 

Keen. What was his favor? 

First Neighbor. O sir, most strange; his mouth pursed 
like a wallet, 
Wherein from both eyes trickled silver tears. 

Keen. He is the man. How shall I break this story? 

First Neighbor. He will be here anon. 

Keen. Then he shall do it. 

He has his wages for such work as this : 
I am for law. Bless me, here is Kate. 

Enter Catharine. 

Cath. Good-morrow, sirs. 

Second Neighbor. The same to you. 

Cath. I would not thus have broken in upon you, 
But for anxiety, that keeps no hours. 

First Neighbor. As, truth, our business does. Give 
you good-day, 
And hopes of many a better. 

Cath. Is it constraint 

Hurries you hence? 

First Neighbor. Believe me and — good-day. 

(Exeunt Neighbors.) 

Cath. O Christopher, I have been searching for you. 
Know you my father's whereabouts. 

Keen. Your father? 

Cath. Yes, have you seen him? 

Keen. He has not returned. 

Cath. Alas ! I feared it. 

Keen. What is there to fear? 

Has he not often, on a spur of business 
That took him unawares, left us in haste, 
And nothing of his destination known? 



THE rogues' mirror. 219 

Oath. But where is Stephen? 

Keen. He will come betimes, 

I warrant you ; the sun has hardly set 
His brief upon the clouds ; 'tis morning still. 

Cath. I fear some mishap has befallen them. 

Keen. Pish ! pish ! it cannot be. 

Cath. Why do you turn 

Your count'uance from me, like a weather-vane? 

Keen. Did I so? 

Cath. Your words are all oblique. 

O, if you have intelligence of harm 
That has befallen my father, tell it me. 
You cannot rob me of my comfort ; 'tis 
All burned to ashes now. 

Keen. O fie and nonsense ! 

I warrant you, your father is as safe 
In life and limb as we are ; otherwise* 
We would have heard of it. The news of ill 
Are blown about in the community 
As with a wind. There's nothing that befalls, 
Of import bloody, wild, and marvelous, 
But every tongue turns carrier. 

Cath. 0, such fears 

Run through my body, I am robbed of thought. 
Who is it walks this way? 

Keen. Stephen, ah ! Stephen. 

.Enter Stephen. 

Cath. what a blackness is between his brows ! 
As God is merciful, what has happened? 

Steph. Heaven save us all and give us comfort, if it 
may. 

Cath. Where is my father? 

Steph. Bless me, 'twere best done shortly. He is dead. 

Cath. Dead ! my body ! 

Keen. She has somewhat fainted. Get some water, 
ho! Nay, 'tis but weakness. What a fool thou art! 

Cath. Where am I? what is done? 

Steph. The Lord have mercy on us. Come away 
Into your room. 

Cath. Nay, touch me not. Stephen, 

Can this be true? 



220 THE KOGUES' MIRROR. 

Steph. I will tell you all. 

But come within the house, out of the wet. 
What sieves my eyes are ! Let me hold your hand. 

Cath. As you will have it; I am sick to death. 
O what a morning ! I could wish a tempest 
Would put the sun out, that I might die with it. 

{Exeunt Catharine and Stephen ) 

Keen. O Lord, what a heaviness has befallen us! I 
think I was born under fighting stars, so contrary to my 
desert goes my fortune. No sooner does a man owe me 
a six-month's wages, but he must needs walk o' nights 
and be murdered. S'blood, was ever a man so pestered, 
so galled, and so harnessed to other men's misfortune? 
A twelvemonth's wages, and the man dead! Let me 
think. The man is dead; ergo, he is not alive. This 
man owned certain goods, chattels, properties, and clivers 
lands, and buildings thereon. But the aforesaid man is 
dead ; ergo, he forfeits to his heirs the aforesaid rights 
and ownerships ; ergo, I shall clap an attachment on the 
aforesaid goods, chattels, and properties, to-morrow at 
the furthest. 'Tis a good thought; I will record it in my 
note-book. Thus, item ; for two years' faithful and fruit- 
ful services, etc. etc. That is well. My fortune is 
marble, but my wit is steel. I have a shrewd tongue, 
that's certain. But bless me, I shall scarce venture out 
at night hereafter. I think all calamities, like summer 
showers, fall in the dark. 

Enter Levec. 

But here comes a thunder-storm, and by day. Are you 
back so soon? 

Levec. I am twenty winters older in a clay. 

Keen. I am sorry for it. 

Levec. You well may say so. 

Has Stephen come? 

Keen. Some minutes ere yourself. 

And with such doleful news as made the light 
Fall from these eyelids. 

Levec. Is all known to all? 

Keen. To both of us. 

Levec. How did the news affect her? 



THE rogues' mirror. 221 

Keen. Very sadly ; she fell backward upon Stephen, 
Like one tree lodged in other. 

Levee. "Pis a pity, 

But much a weakness of my own inclining. 
And yet the man that has no tears within him, 
Like a dry well, shows filthily at bottom. 

Keen. Men are stiff mould. 

Levee. . Ay, some, but he was not ; 

I mean, Judge Ford; against this sottish world 
He was a star in midnight, very lonely. 
'Twere heaven on earth when men that copy him 
Pass current in the world. 

Keen. Much to be wept for. 

Be-enter Catharine and Stephen. 

Cath. I heard your voice within. 

Levee. I am come back 

To my firm center. Would I ne'er had parted. 

Cath. Is it the truth then? Is my father dead? 

Levee. I cannot say you nay. 

Cath. It cannot harm me, 

For I have touched the quick of sorrow now. 

Levee. Would I could say the like. The sting of 
death, 
Goes not so deep as my contrition does. 

Cath. Say not so. 

Keen. We cannot dodge our fate. 

Levee. No more of this. 

Steph. Hark ! what's the noise? 

Levee. Methinks it is a sweet and comely voice 
Comes rapping at the portal of mine ears. 

Cath. No, sir, 'tis harsh and loud. Let us step back. 
A chill runs in my blood. 

Steph. Look there, look there. 

Enter Cade, Ratsey, and Verrell, with Officers and 
Citizens following. 

Keen. Why are they chained up so? what's the offence? 
First Officer. They have murdered Ransom. 
First Citizen. At four o'clock the morning. 

Second Citizen. Look ! yon tall fellow was the man 
that did it. 



222 the rogues' mirror. 

Cade. And I would do it again, curse on you all. 

Second Officer. Not with this love-knot on your wrists, 
you rogue. 

Cade. You are a cur ; a curse on officers ! 
They are much worse than those they hang upon. 
I tell you what, I will bite off your ear — 

Second Officer. Stop up his mouth. 

All. Away to prison with him ! 

{Exeunt Cade, etc, etc.) 

Levee. The air breathes murder. Come within the 
house. 
We ne'er will part again. 

Cath. I know your meaning, 

And sir, I gladly do lean half my sorrow, 
And half my faults upon you. 

Levee. that I 

Might prove a worthier underprop to virtue ! 
But stay, these words fall lightly from a tongue, 
That should be charged with heaviness and grief. 
And yet, my honor is known to myself, 
What matter if the world goes blind to it? 

{Exeunt.) 



016 103 795 3 




